


From Eden

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [51]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Childhood Sweethearts, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Love Letters, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period-Typical Homophobia, Picnics, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22292860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: The first time Mr. Asa Z. Fell met Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, it was the twenty-first of October, 1872, they were both fourteen years old, and the latter boy had just climbed his way up onto Asa’s balcony with a slanted grin and said, “Well, that went down like a lead balloon."A story about friendships, willow trees, anonymous letters, and discovering love against all odds.Part of the Good Omens Big Bang
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Another 51 [51]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1414117
Comments: 79
Kudos: 221
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Good Omens Human AUs, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Our Own Side





	From Eden

**Author's Note:**

> It's here, guys!!! The story I spent literal months stressing over!!! My pride and joy!!!
> 
> No but seriously, I'm so excited to finally get to share this with you all. This is possibly my favourite thing I've ever written in my life, and I'm incredibly proud of it.
> 
> I'm _also _incredibly proud of the work done by the artists and beta who worked on this story with me, and made it so much better than it ever could have been without them. So a massive thank you and good job to my beta, the lovely Sanna_Black_Slytherin, and my wonderful artists, Ecchima at https://twitter.com/Ecchimas_art and Agrenkun at https://thelegendarypusheen-art.tumblr.com/ .__
> 
> _  
> _Thank you so much for reading, and please enjoy!_  
> _

The first time Mr. Asa Z. Fell met Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, it was the twenty-first of October, 1872, they were both fourteen years old, and the latter boy had just climbed his way up onto Asa’s balcony with a slanted grin and said, “Well,  _ that  _ went down like a lead balloon.”

Asa blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“I  _ said _ , ‘that went down like a lead balloon.’ Do try to keep up.”

“ _ Do try to _ —Why, I never! Honestly, the nerve—you come up onto  _ my  _ balcony, in  _ quite  _ a state, I must say, and then  _ you _ tell  _ me _ to  _ keep up _ !”

“Yup,” the boy drawled, popping the ‘p’ at the end.

Asa stared at him for a second, flabbergasted. The boy was quite…  _ peculiar _ -looking, dressed in all black, with curly auburn hair swept back from his face, and eyes of such an odd shade of brown that they almost looked golden. “What in Heaven’s name could you have  _ possibly  _ done that warranted climbing up  _ my  _ balcony?” Asa finally asked, shaking himself out of his stupor.

“I may or may not have convinced my little sister to pick a couple of apples from the tree in Mrs. McDormand's garden. The little twit ratted me out the  _ moment  _ things went sideways. Had to make a run for it before the old hag had my head,” the boy replied. He huffed. “Although, to be completely honest, I don’t really see what the fuss is about. It was only a few apples. It’s hardly the end of the world.”

Asa rolled his eyes. “Of course  _ you _ wouldn’t understand…” He trailed off, only then remembering that he’d never caught the other boy's name.

“Crowley,” the boy offered. “Anthony J. Crowley, actually, though I can’t remember the last time anyone called me  _ Anthony _ . Someone must've, at some point, but people usually just call me Crowley, so.”

“Alright, then,” Asa replied. The sky was growing dark, with clouds gathering in the distance and looming over the quiet village. Asa cleared his throat. “My name is Asa Zacharias Fell, but just Asa is fine. I’d say it's a pleasure to meet you, but I'm not in the habit of deception.”

Crowley scoffed.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder crashed.

Asa typically kept a small, white umbrella on the balcony, and that evening, he was grateful for his habit.

He held it over both of their heads as the heavens opened up and the rain poured down around them.

**

**

As a rule, Asa disliked carriages almost as much as he disliked horses.

They were bumpy and loud and uncomfortable, and Asa couldn’t even distract himself from the whole miserable affair with a nice book, lest he become  _ dreadfully  _ ill, and, potentially—as had happened on one spectacularly unfortunate occasion—get sick all over said book.

(It had been a first edition Whitman, and Asa had gone into a month-long mourning period.)

And yet, even having taken this into account, Asa still couldn’t find it within himself to feel relieved as they drew to a halt in front of his family home.

It had been years since he’d stepped foot in Eden Manor, and that was entirely intentional. He’d forgone holidays for the sake of his studies (and had, much of the time, then proceeded to forgo his studies for the sake of an opera, or a play, or a symphony, or simply a book and a nice mug of cocoa) ever since he’d started his schooling, choosing to remain in London rather than face the rot of all he’d left behind.

There was no avoiding it now, however. No excuses that could be made.

Asa had returned to Eden.

With a deep breath, he gathered his things and stepped out of the carriage.

It was a shame, how his memories had stripped the old, moss-covered bricks of his family home of their inherent beauty, and warped them into something bitter and cold.

Asa made his way up the steps slowly. He allowed his free hand to run over the railing, taking in the notches and crevices in the old wood.

He knocked on the door.

“Oh dear me,” a high-pitched voice said. “Is it time already? Surely, I thought he’d be a bit longer—”

“The  _ door _ , Miss Tracy,” a sharp, clipped voice interrupted.

“Oh, yes, of course,” the first voice replied, and a moment later the door swung open to reveal an older woman with short, curly gray hair wearing a simple grey dress covered by a white pinafore. She beamed. “Mr. Fell!” she said taking Asa by the hand. “Oh, come in, come in! It’s been so long, I had half a mind that you’d left us all together!”

Asa couldn’t help but smile against the onslaught of Miss Tracy’s affections. “It is lovely to be home,” he said quietly, and for a moment, as he imagined himself standing there with only the old house and the woman who’d raised him, it really, truly was.

Gabriel cleared his throat.

“Miss Tracy, if you wouldn’t mind taking my brother’s bags up to his room,” he said, his voice condescending and disapproving as ever.

Miss Tracy rolled her eyes and grinned at Asa as she took his bags and hurried up the stairs, leaving Asa alone as he stood in front of his older brother. Gabriel looked the same as ever—same square jaw, same perfect hair, same obnoxious smile, same crisp, white collar tucked into the neck of his shirt. Same  _ perfect _ person as he had always been.

Asa forced himself to smile. “Brother,” he said, hoping he’d quashed his anxiety and disdain enough so that it didn’t leak into his voice. “It is so good to see you.”

Gabriel’s smile was tense. “It’s good to have you back, Asa,” he said, the words obviously at least a partial lie. “I trust your travels went smoothly?”

“As smoothly as one could have hoped for.”

“Thanks be to God then, eh?”

“Y-Yes,” Asa replied quietly. “Thanks be to God.”

“We’re having company over for supper,” Gabriel continued. “Thought it only proper to have a bit of a celebration. Was that not what the good father did when his prodigal son returned home?”

“That it is, brother,” Asa said, his hands tucked behind his back so Gabriel couldn’t see as he fiddled with the signet ring on his little finger.

Gabriel stared at him for a moment. “I take it London has treated you well?” he eventually asked, a small lilt of awkwardness in his voice at last.

“Very,” Asa replied curtly.

“Good,” Gabriel said. “That’s… good. Well then. Our guests will be arriving close to seven.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the foyer.

Asa released the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

It was going to be fine.

It had to be.

**

His room was precisely how he left it four years previous, and Asa didn’t know if he was wary or relieved.

Was it a kindness, allowing so many memories to remain between the wood-paneled walls, or was it a threat? A reminder? A warning, saying,  _ We know _ .  _ We have not forgotten. _

The window seat was still covered in lopsided cushions. A thick, tartan quilt still sat on his bed, and a pale blue afgan was still draped over an overstuffed chair in the corner. His bookcases remained lined against the walls, the books slanted across the spaces from which Asa had taken his favourite stories and packed them away. His violin sat in the corner, shining as if just polished. Asa’s fingers suddenly itched with the urge to pick it up, to tune the strings and place it under his chin, to have the familiar weight of the bow in his hands. 

He didn’t.

Time had not touched his bedroom in Eden.

In fact, it seemed as if time had not touched Eden at all.

It was as if Asa was once again nineteen, foolish and young and, while not fearless, far more reckless than Asa dared to be now.

Sometimes, he wondered if his younger self would recognise him at all.

How odd it was, to be the victim of change, and have that change look you in the face.

Asa carefully removed his coat and hung it in his wardrobe—now with his all of his belongs unpacked, but still full of the shirts left behind those many years ago, shirts that he wouldn’t dare try and squeeze himself into now—before sitting himself down in his large chair.

He had a few more hours before dinner, after all, and there were still many poems left unread in his newest collection.

(This Wilde fellow was  _ quite  _ wonderful, if Asa did say so himself.)

**

“Mr. Fell?” a voice asked from the other side of the door, shaking Asa from his reverie. “Mr. Fell,” Miss Tracy continued, “your brother would like to know when you’ll be coming down. The guests have all arrived, and dinner is ready for whenever you wish to make an appearance.”

Asa slammed his book shut.

“ _ Drat _ ,” he swore under his breath as he stumbled up from his chair. “Tell Gabriel I’ll be right down!” he called. “Thank you very much!”

He winced as he slammed his foot against the leg of his lamp table. Honestly, the entire thing was ridiculous, and was it not for the promise of a lovely meal (Miss Tracy was an  _ excellent _ cook), Asa would have been tempted to skip the whole affair in favour of remaining upstairs with his books. As it was, the young man quickly made his way to his wardrobe and selected one of his nicer vests, a pair of fresh trousers, and a tailcoat. He quickly pulled on the garments before hastily picking out a silk (and tartan patterned) bowtie.

Once he was sure he was presentable (if he  _ had _ to do this, he wasn’t going to look  _ shabby _ while doing it—he had  _ standards _ ) he rushed down to the parlour, hoping he that wasn’t too red in the face.

“Ah, here he is!” Gabriel said, clapping Asa on the back and squeezing his shoulder directing him to a small party of three over by one corner. Asa didn’t recognise any of them. “My dear little brother, returned from university. He’s finally realised his place was not among the sinners of London, but here, with the good, honest people of the Lord.”

Asa’s smile was tight at the corners. “London is quite different, I’ll admit,” he said politely, “but I actually found it quite lovely—”

Gabriel squeezed his shoulder tighter, and Asa bit his lip to keep from letting out a startled yelp.

“My brother,” Gabriel said, a deceptive smile on his lips. “Always such a—such a jester. Ha!”

Asa glanced at him and fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes,” he said dryly. “That’s me, known for my risibility.”

Gabriel squeezed his shoulder a final time before slapping him on the back again. “And now that you’ve deigned us with the honour of your presence,” he said jovially, “we can eat!”

“Oh, good,” Asa sighed. “I do hope I didn’t hold anyone up for too long.”

Gabriel fixed him with a look that said quite clearly that Asa had, in fact, done exactly that.

**

It seemed as if most of the party was in the dining room already, loitering around the chairs. The candles at the center of the table had been lit, and a few guests already had drinks in hand.

Asa selected a chair off to the side of the table and studiously ignored Gabriel’s disapproving look.

A moment later, someone sat across from him. As Asa glanced up and into the surprisingly familiar face, he feared that his heart might just stop.

Crowley looked different, but then, one could hardly expect someone to look the same after four years apart (unless one was referring to Asa himself, who'd been dressing in the same particular style for as long as he could remember). His hair was shorter, for one, and styled in an elaborate coif so that it no longer hid his eyes as it had been wont to do when he was younger. He has also finally rid himself of the horrid, patchy sideburns he’d always been so proud of.

Asa couldn't help but smile at the sight of him, and immediately bit his lip to hide it.

Crowley grinned, that same wry smile he'd had all his life. “Well, I'll be  _ damned _ ,” he said, the words low enough that no one else could hear the profanity. “Asa Fell, home from London. I never thought I'd see the day.”

Crowley was wearing white.  _ White _ , as if he hadn’t, in all the years Asa had known him, not worn anything in a shade lighter than charcoal grey.

“Wonders never cease,” Asa replied simply.

Crowley laughed, his head tipped back and his mouth open so that Asa could see the points of his teeth. “It has been a while, though, hasn't it?” he asked.

“It rather has,” Asa replied pleasantly. He cleared his throat. “And you, Mr. Crowley?” he asked. “How’ve you been? Your sister? Your aunt?”

Crowley blinked at him for a moment. “ _ Mr. _ —” he started, but cut himself off with a scowl. “We're well,” he said, his tone considerably shorter than it had been before.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Asa said.

Thankfully, Miss Tracy, like the saint she was, chose that moment to carry out the silver platters heavy laden with pork and potatoes and great pots of soup.

Asa could already feel his mouth watering.

**

The food was wonderful—Miss Tracy’s cooking always was—and Asa soon lost himself to the thrill of a good meal, the joy of something delicious on his tongue.

He was interrupted by Gabriel tapping his knife against the side of his glass.

“If I could have everyone’s attention,” he said, standing up at the head of the table. “I have some important news to share with you all.”

Asa did his best to ignore the growing pit in his stomach.

“As you all know,” Gabriel continued, “my…  _ dear  _ little brother has returned to us from his time at university. It's a great accomplishment, one that had made us all very proud.”

There was a murmur of agreement throughout the room.

“ _ However _ ,” Gabriel said, "it would be unwise of us to assume that this is the end of Asa's journey. No. Instead, I have taken it upon myself to ensure that my brother will continue his path of learning, but this time instead of studying the ways of the world, he will be studying the ways of our wonderful Creator. Thus, I have nominated dear Asa for a ministry position. More news will be had by Christmas!”

The room cheered.

Asa dropped his fork.

“A word from the man of the hour?” Gabriel asked, glancing over to where Asa sat in shock.

From across the table, Crowley was watching him with narrow, knowing eyes.

Asa swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Y—Yes, of course,” he said, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin. He awkwardly climbed to his feet and cleared his throat. “I’m, uh—well, I’m honoured, and—and beyond grateful for the opportunity. It was—it was incredibly thoughtful of my brother to… arrange such a thing. Thank you, Gabriel.”

Gabriel grinned in much the same way Asa imagined a tiger would.

Sharp. Threatening. Too many teeth.

The rest of dinner passed in a haze of saccharine smiles and condescending congratulations.

Asa could hardly get through a bite of his pudding without someone butting their noses into his business, offering a penny for his thoughts and then speaking over him after the second word.

It was, simply put,  _ infuriating _ . The only bright speck of the whole ordeal was the new soup recipe Miss Tracy had apparently developed in Asa’s absence, something lovely made of sweet potatoes and bacon and cream.

Asa excused himself at his earliest possible convenience, and slipped out into the back garden.

The air was heavy and thick, the heat of summer just beginning to creep up upon them. Lightning bugs buzzed around the flower bushes as the sun dipped just below the horizon, so that the sky was awash with lavender and magenta and navy.

Asa thought, not for the first time, that it was a shame that such a lovely place was home to him and his own wretched history.

The smell of tobacco and smoke hung in the air, and Asa looked up to see Crowley leaning against the back door frame, a cigar between his lips.

“I had hoped you'd grown out such a disgusting habit,” Asa said with a roll of his eyes. He shifted from the middle to the side of the bench he was occupying. “Honestly, the smell alone should be enough to put you off it.”

“Do they not smoke in London, Mr. Fell?”

There was something about the way the name rolled off of Crowley's tongue, something that left Asa feeling somehow both guilty and out of breath.

Asa rolled his eyes. “I never said that,” he replied.

“Well then,” Crowley said with that slanted grin of his, like that was all the argument he needed to make.

Crowley took another drag of his cigar, and Asa huffed. “Yes, because everyone who's ever gone to London comes back with tales of how  _ delightful _ it smells,” he snapped.

Crowley laughed before finally taking the seat Asa had offered him.

“You know, I’m glad to hear that your family is doing well,” Asa stated, staring out into the watercolour sky. “I was surprised when I didn’t see any of them at dinner.”

“Ah, well,” Crowley said, legs crossed at the ankles, cigar dangling loosely in his fingers. “Eve got married to some bloke a few towns over, a fellow named Adams. He’s alright—nothing remarkable, but he seems bright, and he’s got enough money to make Aunt Bea happy, so that’s that.”

“I didn’t know your Aunt Bea was  _ capable  _ of being happy.”

Crowley scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, neither did I. Thought it was a bloody miracle, really.”

“Either way,” Asa said, smiling at his old—friend? acquaintance? something more?—as he drummed his fingers on his leg. “I’m happy everything is going well for you, my dear.”

Asa could’ve sworn he saw Crowley blush.

“Enough about me, though, angel,” Crowley said after a moment. “A vicar then, hm? How'd that happen?”

Asa bit his lip. “Your guess is as good as mine,” he admitted.

Crowley looked shocked. “Wha—What you do you mean,  _ your guess is as good as _ —Surely your brother would've asked—Surely he told you he had something in mi—”

“He has only my best interests at heart,” Asa interrupted. “I… I trust him.”

“What?” Crowley asked. “ _ Why _ ?”

“He's given me no reason not to.”

Crowley scoffed. “Oh yes, because signing you up for a job without asking you speaks  _ so _ highly of his rectitude—”

“Really, Mr. Crowley, please,” Asa pleaded. “The relationship between my brother and I is none of your concern, so if you could be so kind as to pick another topic for us to discuss, that would be much appreciated.”

Crowley stared at him for a moment, and Asa couldn't help but notice the way his eyes looked in the hazy mix of sun and starlight, like polished bronze, precious and beautiful.

Asa cleared his throat, and Crowley looked away quickly. “Yes,” he said, the words clipped. “Yes, of course. Far be it from me to get involved in your  _ personal affairs _ .”

“Precisely,” Asa said.

There was a beat.

“Read any… read any good books, then? While you were up in London? Surely they've got to have  _ something  _ worth your while at that fancy university—”

“Oh, yes!” Asa exclaimed enthusiastically, clapping his hands. "Have you heard of  _ The Jungle Book _ ? Oh, it really is lovely. These animals, my dear, I don't understand how he makes them all seem quite so  _ human _ —”

“I'd wager it probably had something to do with the way they're all talking and thinking and all that—”

“But it's  _ brilliant _ ! Oh, I do believe I brought back a copy, if you'd like to read it. I really cannot recommend it enough—”

“It's quite alright, angel,” Crowley replied. “You've always been the one about the books. I see no need to change that now.”

Asa huffed, but didn't even think to correct his term of endearment, and they continued talking late into the night.

Neither of them noticed the way Gabriel stared at them through the window.

**

Asa fell back into Eden’s old patterns with alarming ease.

He woke early, dressed up to his vest—he dared not be caught unawares in only his bare shirtsleeves—and sat on his balcony with a book in hand until Miss Tracy brought up a platter of hotcakes or porridge with sausages and fried potatoes.

He read. He wrote, occasionally. He watched the birds that frequented the garden, tossing out seed for them and watching them bicker.

He picked up his violin, rosined the bow, stood in front of his window, and did not play a single note.

He only talked to Gabriel at supper, and even then it was about the most mundane of topics, the weather and the quality of food (somehow, they still managed to squabble—how anyone could find roasted lamb anything less than absolutely  _ scrumptious _ , Asa would never understand).

He reread  _ Alice's Adventures in Wonderland _ , and pointedly did not think about overbearing, inconsiderate authority figures or strange men who made peculiar fashion choices.

He received a letter.

It came in pressed brown paper, sealed with a signet in the shape of a curled-up snake, had no return address, and Asa snatched it from his brother's hand just before Gabriel could rip into it.

“Silly me,” Asa said, chuckling awkwardly as Gabriel stared at him in disbelief (Asa wasn't really the type to do much  _ snatching _ , especially not from Gabriel). “Must've forgot to mention; I've been expecting correspondence from an—from an acquaintance back in London. Thank you for collecting this for me, brother.”

Asa did not fully understand why he felt the need to lie, only that the words had tumbled from his lips before he could even think to stop them.

Asa rushed up the stairs to his room before Gabriel could ask any more questions, and locked the door behind him.

He lit a candle, placed his reading spectacles upon his nose, carefully broke the wax seal, and began to read.

_ My Beloved Angel, _

_ Throughout the tenure of our friendship, ‘tis never been I who had such a sweeping way with words. ‘Twas never I who filled their head with all the wondrous romance of the poets, nor was it I who languished amongst the lovelorn words of all those who tread this path before us, and thus I pray you forgive me for the words which I now do write, as I am aware that there is naught which I am capable of describing here that fully captures the depths of that which I do feel for you. _

_ Be it what it is, I'll write this anyway. _

_ I am now, as I have ever been, most definitely, completely, and adoringly in love with you, my angel, to the point where, were I anyone but myself, I would've most certainly given myself a knock about the head and no less than a pipe of wine and told myself to stop being so utterly ridiculous. _

_ I'd never once considered myself a romantic, until that moment in which you smiled at me for the first time, and the Heavens quite literally parted above us. _

_ If I were the type to write sonnets, you would have already inspired more than enough to be printed into a neat little collection that you would, most likely, then shove into place upon one of your overcrowded bookshelves, even though there is absolutely no room for it. _

_ Perhaps, were I incredibly lucky, you would pluck this book of poems from its shelf every night to read before you slept, and so the book would find itself a new home upon your bedside table. _

_ More likely, however, they'd all be such rubbish that I'd never sell a single copy. _

_ None of that would matter, however, if only you had read them and had known and understood the exact amount of insufferable feelings you had and have been able to cause within me. _

_ I'd die a thousand deaths if only you could find it within yourself to reciprocate, in some small way, the love I feel for you, for even a drop of this love would be enough to drown all others. _

_ Yours, In All The Ways That Matter _

The letter was signed with the same coiled serpent from the wax seal of the envelope, intricately drawn, and Asa fought the urge to run a finger over the ink.

He was hardly the type who received such letters. These things belonged in an Austen novel, or, failing that, the sort of fairy tales Miss Tracy had read to him in his youth.

They  _ certainly  _ did not belong on Asa’s desk, surrounded by old teacups and old books and melted candles.

Asa re-read the letter for a second time, and then a third.

The words did not miraculously change—the letter, thankfully, did not magically become one from a library in London inquiring about the whereabouts of six books checked out under Asa's name (books that Asa was most definitely going to return—he just needed to acquire the materials to mail them back into the city, oh, and to find the time to actually post them, and,  _ and _ , he wasn't sure he’d actually read all six all the way through, and he wouldn't want to have to go through the whole tedious process again—but yes, of course, Asa was going to return the books; he was going to be a vicar, after all—he couldn’t very well  _ steal _ ).

The sentiment of the letter remained.

They called him beloved.

They called him  _ angel _ .

Asa clutched the paper close to his chest.

**

Asa read the letter every day, sometimes more than once. He traced every curve of the snake-like signature, ran his thumb across every small, smudged fingerprint where his admirer must have brushed still-wet ink.

He imagined what his admirer would be like, were he to meet them. He imagined picnic lunches under the old willow tree in the grove behind Eden. He imagined long, cold night huddled together in front of a roaring fire. He imagined pale fingers brushing his cheek, deep red curls under his palms, bright golden eyes staring into his own—

Well.

There was no sin in fantasy.

**

On the fourth day, another letter arrived.

This time, it was not Gabriel who collected the post (but  _ not  _ because Asa was only half-reading his book as he sat by his window in the morning, having down the road, waiting for the mailman to ride up to their door, of  _ course _ not, that was  _ absurd _ ), and Asa haphazardly threw the other letters down on the bureau in the front room before hurrying back upstairs.

The second letter went much the same way as the first, occasionally forgoing its purple prose in favour of wry remarks and quips that left Asa blushing.

The third letter arrived two days after the second.

The fourth arrived a day after that, at which point Asa felt he had no choice but to respond.

_ My Dear, _

_ I wish I was privy to the knowledge of your name, dearest, for nothing in this world would bring me more joy than to know you and know you well. Your words have become the lamp that sheds such bright light upon my existence. I wish you were with me now, my darling, that I may show you the smile that your sentiments have brought to my lips. I only wish I knew more of you. That I knew of you at all. Such mystery belongs in a harlequin romance or a child’s fairy tale, not in our own mundane reality. _

_ Show me who you are, my beloved, that I may know you as you seem to know me (an imbalance that puts me at quite a disadvantage, my dear, as I’m sure you’re aware). _

_ How am I to love you when I do not know you? Falling for your kind words is naught but vanity if there is nothing else I know of you than your love for me. _

_ Grant me this favour, darling, and I shall grant you many more. _

_ Yours Most Ardently, _

_ Asa Z. Fell _

Asa carefully folded the paper with shaking hands.

There was no way for him to mail it properly, not without his admirer’s address. Instead, he was left to again spend the next morning peering out his window, waiting for the mail carrier to appear around the bend in the road.

He met the man before he met the eastern gate of Eden.

“Hello, my good fellow!” he said with a smile that he hoped looked more natural than it felt.

“Good morning,” the man replied, tipping his cap. “Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Quite—”

“And I do have another letter for you, sir.”

“Oh!” Asa said, feeling his cheeks flush. He cleared his throat. “Actually, those letters are why I’ve stopped you this morning. I was wondering if you knew where they were coming from.”

The postman smiled. “Ah, no sir. All I know is that they’re dropped in your box at the office every morning.”

“Drat,” Asa muttered under his breath. He fiddled with his signet for a moment before raising his hands with a soft, “Oh!”

“Yes, sir?”

“What if you simply left this in my box as well?” Asa asked, holding out the letter he’d written. “Then, perhaps, whoever has been leaving those letters would find it.”

“Oh, I suppose,” the postman said. “I’ll admit, I have been curious. What’s this all about, anyway? Is someone giving you trouble, Mr. Fell?”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Asa insisted. “Really, it’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“In any case, ours is not to worry, Mr. Fell. Ours is to deliver letters and packages.”

“Right-o,” Asa said, handing the postman his letter, and gingerly taking the one being handed to him. “And you’ll let me know if the letter has, in fact, been taken tomorrow?”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Fell,” the man said, and Asa smiled.

“Oh, thank you,” he replied. “And give Maud my best, would you?”

“Of course, Mr. Fell,” the postman said, and continued on his way, leaving Asa alone with yet another letter.

**

The response came the very next day.

_ My Lovely Angel, _

_ I never expected to read your sweet words. I never dared imagine that you would care to respond. You give light to my darkest days, and to hold this letter now, to know that the words came from your quill, that it was sealed with your wax, that it was folded with your hands, is a new sort of heaven. _

_ However, I am afraid I cannot reveal my identity to you, for I am sure that the moment you knew me, you would no longer wish to hear a word I have to offer. _

_ Believe me, angel, ‘tis better for us both if we each remain a secret, even to each other. _

_ Be that as it may, I must admit that your own points are well-founded—as they ought to be, for surely they must've taught you some sort of higher thought at that fancy London school of yours.  _

_ I would hate nothing more in this world than for you to feel any sort of false affection for me, and as such, I recognise that, though my foolish heart longs to do nothing more than to show you the love I feel for you—you, Heaven's most precious angel, perfect in your imperfections—I understand that I must tell you of myself, so that should the Almighty decide one day to bless me (something I doubt, given Their history) with your love, the feelings would not be unfounded… _

And on and on it went, and on and on  _ they  _ went.

Asa learned more of his secret correspondent with every line of ink, every curled letter, every blotted mark and smudged word.

While they claimed they had no love for literature, they were certainly well-read, and seemed to have a secret affinity for poetry.  _ There are some who speak of love as if it’s seeped into the grass and the earth and the streams _ , they wrote,  _ and while I find myself too cynical to truly agree with them, I do hope they are right. _

And they were  _ funny _ .  _ I can be anything you wish _ ,  _ so long as you wish for gangly limbs and clumsy feet and a mouth that runs like a wild horse, _ they said, witty and bright in a way Asa had found himself sorely missing since he’d moved back in with Gabriel (who Asa was sure had never once heard a joke in his entire life).

Asa had always found the story of Romeo and Juliet to be a bit ridiculous. To think you could love someone, truly,  _ deeply _ love them, after having only known them for a night?

It was beyond fanciful. It was  _ absurd _ .

That was what Asa repeated to himself as he lay in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling.

It was unheard of, and if  _ that _ was ridiculous, what could be said of the thought that you could love someone you'd  _ never  _ met?

How could he love someone, having never heard their voice? Never seen their smile? Never known their touch?

No, he told himself. It was not love.

It couldn’t be love.

Sensible people could not fall in love this way, passing only clever words and sickly sweet sentiments between them.

But every night Asa's mind lingered over the curling, beautiful words of the day, and when he closed his eyes, all he could think of was what he would read the next day, and what he would write in reply.

Perhaps he wasn't so sensible, himself.

**

The letters grew longer with the days, warmer still with every summer breeze.

Asa had taken to writing them outside. There was a grove behind Eden, a cluster of trees no more than an acre in any direction, that separated the Fells from the Crowleys, and in the middle of the grove sat an old willow tree.

It had been something of a sanctuary for Asa for as long as he could remember. The long branches formed a canopy that hid anyone next to the tree from sight, and Asa had spent many a day of his childhood behind that curtain, sat upon a thick quilt with a book and a basket of sandwiches and…

And he sat there now, with the same blanket and the same basket and the same sort of cucumber and dill sandwiches, with his portable writing desk on his lap and paper and ink strewn about, and his jacket hung neatly on one of the knobs of the tree (it was  _ summer _ , and Asa could hardly have  _ sweat stains  _ on his favourite coat).

Perhaps it was foolish, to be a grown man writing love letters in his childhood fortress, to not truly know who he was writing to, to imagine the recipient to be—

Perhaps, but Asa could not find it within himself to care.

For exactly two weeks, Asa enjoyed solitude beneath the old willow tree, alone with the birds and the crickets and his thoughts.

On the fifteenth day, Asa arrived to see someone else sat up in the branches.

“What in Heaven’s name—Is that you, Mr. Crowley?” Asa asked as he ducked under the leaves.

“Mr. Fell,” Crowley replied from where he sat, one leg dangling and the other propped up on the branch. He had an apple in his hand. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Yes,” Asa replied rather dumbly. “I mean—Well—”

“Come here often?”

Asa’s brows furrowed. “What’s it matter to you?” he asked. “Last I checked, this tree wasn’t on your property, so I’m hardly trespassing, and really—”

“Relax, angel,” Crowley replied, lowering himself to the ground with such ease that one could almost describe it as a  _ slither _ . “I’ve no room to judge either way. It’s a good tree.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Asa said, staring up into the canopy. “You know, for a while, I’d been concerned that it may have been cut down.”

“Nah,” Crowley said. “Don’t see why anyone would try. What could anyone have against a tree?”

Asa peered up into the branches.

If Gabriel had somehow found out, then—

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he answered quietly.

For a moment, they stared at each other.

_ What could anyone have against a tree? _

“Well, I suppose I’ll be off, then,” Crowley said, tossing his apple from hand to hand. He wore only his shirtsleeves and trousers, no vest or jacket in sight, and his usual tinted glasses were dangling from where he’d tucked them into his collar. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt your picnic.”

“Don’t,” Asa said quickly, surprising even himself. “I—I mean—Well, I only—Would you like to stay?” he stammered. “I’ve got enough sandwiches for the both of us, and I would rather like the company—if you’re amenable, of course.”

Crowley blinked at him. “You sure?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Asa insisted. “This is your tree as much as it is mine, and—I’ve, well, I’ve—I have missed you, my dear. Four years is an awfully long time, especially between—between—”

“Friends?” Crowley offered, an eyebrow raised.

“Quite.”

**

_ My Dearest Angel, _

_ I have no love for this world except for that which you have so artfully instilled in me. _

_ You would think me foolish if you knew me, angel. To think that all it took for this cold, blackened heart ro melt is a few of your kind words, a handful of half-seen smiles.  _

_ But oh, to be your fool! I’d wear any manner of ridiculous clothes, each laced with garrish sequins and bells, if only to stand in your presence and bring that smile to your lips. _

_ I am not brave, I am not kind, I am not patient or compassionate. I am a serpent, a snake, cunning and deceitful and sly, but I would gladly slither up to Eden, if only to sit outside your door. _

_ I am a tempter, sweet angel, but I would never tempt you. _

_ I’d be happy to simply bask in your warmth, your light that outshines the sun. _

_ Unrepentantly, Unabashedly Yours. _

**

Asa expected it to be harder, falling back into his and Crowley’s old pattern of playful arguments and light-hearted teasing, but it wasn’t difficult at all.

In fact, it was the easiest thing in the world.

“And you’re working where, exactly?” Asa asked, carefully divvying up portions of the black baerries he’d packed.

“Oh, you know,” Crowley said. “Here, there, everywhere. I’ve actually been doing a bit of work down at the post office here recently—”

“Oh, have you?” Asa asked. “Why, maybe you—Well, you see, I’ve been receiving quite a few letters, recently, from an anonymous sender. You wouldn’t happen to have any ideas as to…?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, angel,” Crowley replied. “Apologies.”

“Oh,” Asa said, doing his best not to sound disappointed.

“Why?” Crowley asked. “These letters—are they a problem? Are they bothering you? Should I—”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like—That’s not it at all,” Asa protested. “They’re really rather lovely, if I’m being honest. I was simply curious to know if you knew anything about a possible sender.”

“I’ll… I’ll keep an eye on it, then,” Crowley said.

“Oh, would you?”

“‘Course. That’s what—well, that’s what  _ friends _ do, innit? Go on command for anonymous mail people?”

Asa chuckled. “I suppose so,” he murmured. He looked up at Crowley after a moment, brows furrowed. “What business do you have at the post office, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Oh, you know,” Crowley said with a one-shouldered shrug. “Just my—just the usual. Family business and all.”

“Ah,” Asa whispered, looking back down at his quilt.

The Crowley family’s business was, as far as Asa could tell, to have as many fingers in as many pies as possible. It was part of why the Crowleys and the Fells had such a… contentious relationship. While objectively and morally opposed, it seemed to be in the church’s (and therefore the Fells, who’d been the local clergymen for as long as anyone could remember) best interest to  _ also _ have as many fingers in as many pies as possible.

Often times, those pies happened to overlap.

Sometimes, the fingers did, too.

“What about you, Mr. Fell?” Crowley inquired, his head tipping to the side, those bright golden eyes gleaming as the sunlight filtered through the leaves. “Obviously, we both know what  _ your _ work is, but surely there was  _ something  _ in London that caught your fancy—besides, the Almighty, of course.”

“Oh, yes,” Asa answered, grinning. “It  _ was _ quite lovely. You know, I spent some time as a clerk at a printing press, and they let me work on editing a few publications. It really was incredibly interesting work.”

“You would think, wouldn’t you?” Crowley asked. “On my life, I’ve never met anyone with such an affection for literature. I used to think you had books glued to your hands. Never saw you without one in all the years we were growing up.”

Asa scoffed. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” he said. “There must’ve been times when I—plenty of times, really. We went horseback riding once, there’s no way I—”

“You pulled one out of your saddlebag the  _ moment _ we stopped for a rest, and then you got upset because it had gotten all covered in crumbs from the biscuits you’d packed.”

“Oh,” Asa said with a quiet laugh. “Oh, yes, I remember—I really was so upset, but in  _ my defense _ , it was a lovely edition of  _ Little Women _ , and ruining it would’ve been  _ such  _ a shame—”

Crowley grinned at him, and Asa huffed, knowing he’d just gone and proved the other man’s point.

“It was a lovely outing,” Asa mused in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

“Really, angel?” Crowley asked. “It started raining almost immediately, we had to pull over at that old stable—”

“And you tripped and fell in that plash—oh, I’d never  _ seen  _ you so angry—”

“It was a new jacket!”

Asa laughed. “I enjoyed it.”

“You would,” Crowley muttered, but Asa saw the smile on his face.

It really  _ had _ been a lovely day, even with all the inconveniences.

They’d sat up on a few hay bales on the second floor of the stable, listening as the rain poured. Somehow, Crowley’s hand had found itself entwined in Asa’s, and Asa’s head found its way to Crowley’s shoulder.

There’d been a brush of lips against his crown, and the smell of petrichor in the air—

“Oh, to be young again,” Asa murmured as he stared up into the high-up branches of the willow tree.

Crowley huffed. “We’re hardly  _ old _ ,” he said. “Twenty-three isn’t  _ old _ , angel. We’ve still got our whole lives in front of us—”

“You might,” Asa mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing,” Asa said quickly. “You know, I—I ought to getting back, Gabriel will—Well, you know how he gets, and I’m hardly in the mood to fuss over that now—”

“Of course, Mr. Fell,” Crowley replied, levering himself to his feet, and helping Asa pick up his quilt.

Asa pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Crowley,” he said, twiddling with the signet on his pinkie. “Do you—would there happen to be any chance of seeing you again? Soon? H—Here?”

“I’d say so,” Crowley replied with a grin.

Asa returned Crowley’s smile, and turned to walk back towards the house. Just as he was leaving the safety of the willow tree, he thought he heard Crowley murmur, “I'd say so.”

**

Asa did, in fact, see Crowley again. In fact, he saw him the very next day, lounging up against the willow tree with a pad of paper and a pencil.

“Mr. Crowley,” Asa said, again laying out his quilt and his portable writing desk. He’d received another letter that morning, and was hurrying to draft a response.

“Mr. Fell,” Crowley replied, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Mind if I join?”

“Not at all, my dear,” Asa said, making sure to leave Crowley a good deal of room on the blanket. “Go right ahead.”

And so they talked and ate and joked and laughed and bickered and sat in a comfortable sort of silence, Asa bent over his writing desk and Crowley bent over his notebook.

And so it continued. Every day, they found each other under the old willow tree. Asa brought a book, his writing kit, and a few cucumber sandwiches and a thick, tartan blanket. Crowley began bringing a bottle of wine (most of which were emptied by the end of the afternoon—some of Asa and Crowley’s most interesting conversations happened over those now-empty bottles of wine, including, but not limited to, the time Crowley had, out of seemingly nowhere, asked Asa, “How much brains d’you suppose a whale’s got?”) and, for a few fleeting, wonderful, rapturous moments, there was no Gabriel, no looming threat of a stiff white collar, no family expectations, no fear.

Just the two of them and the warm breeze that slowly blew through the willow leaves.

**

**

The letters kept coming, more and more lovely with every passing day.

_ My Lovely Angel, _

_ Thy love blesses even this most tattered soul. All the heaven I seek I find in your words. I would break mine own heart that thine may beat. May my breath turn to ashes in my lungs, if it may help you breathe. No word is as holy as thy name. For thee, the roses bloom and the stars fall. Unworthy am I to stand in your light _ .

And Asa continued responding. Every word was a door, a window, a gate that was pushed open, revealing something pure and bright and miraculous on the other.

_ My Dearest, _

_ Thy words could fell even the holiest of Angels, for love like this finds its only rival in that of God Himself. You tempt me with every perfectly written word. The ink of your pen has become the blood in my veins, giving me life, for without it I would most certainly perish. To think that I would renounce Heaven if only to hold you in my arms. Surely such a notion is too blasphemous for even the Devil himself, but I find myself knowing that such a thing could never bring me Hell, for even in this I could find no sin in love. _

Once, Crowley asked what Asa was writing.

“Oh, it’s—well, it’s—it’s not nothing, but—”

“You don’t have to tell me, angel—”

“You know those letters I told you about? The anonymous ones?” Asa asked.

Crowley glanced up into the green canopy. “Yeah?”

“Well, I’ve been—I’ve taken to replying to them, actually,” Asa admitted. “It’s—Call me an old silly, but—they’re so  _ lovely _ , Cro—Mr. Crowley, and I… I fear they may have captured the better part of my sensibilities.”

Crowley’s eyes grew wide. “Is that so?” he asked. “I take it, then, that you know who has been sending you these letters?”

“Oh,” Asa said. “Oh, um, well—”

“ _ Asa Zacharius Fell _ !” Crowley said, jumping to his feet. “You mean to tell me that you—Ha! Look at you, you sly dog! Wooing and romancing some poor maiden you haven’t even met! Why, I didn’t think you had it in you!”

Asa cleared his throat awkwardly. “I suppose that makes two of us,” he said quietly. “Crowley,” he continued, tone serious, after a moment, “may I… may I tell you something? A—a secret?”

“Of course, certainly,” Crowley said, coming to a sudden standstill. “Anything in the world, angel. You have my word.”

“I… I have my suspicions,” Asa began slowly, “that the sender may not, in fact, be a… a  _ maiden _ .”

“Oh,” Crowley. “Oh, well, that’s—Well, you know me, I can’t—Well then—That’s dangerous, angel.”

“I  _ know _ ,” Asa mumbled, bitterness seeping through his words and into the space between them.

“Does Gabriel know?”

“He doesn’t even know the letters exist,” Asa whispered.

Crowley sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you’re sure, angel,” he muttered.

“I am,” Asa assured him. “I swear to you, I am.”

**

They spent one afternoon, not under the willow tree, but instead sat along the riverbank just down the way, sitting with their feet in the water and Asa's trusty white umbrella blocking out the sun.

The river was up from an earlier week's worth of rain, but as they sat with their usual picnic between them, the sun shone brighter than Asa had ever thought possible.

He almost wished he had a pair of Crowley's glasses.

Crowley himself seemed to be enjoying the weather, spread out just outside the umbrella's shade, basking in the sun like some sort of reptile.

“I don't know how you stand it,” Asa said, dabbing his forehead with a hanky. “It's absolutely dreadful, this heat. What I wouldn't give for a breeze.”

“‘S probably because you're still buttoned up to the throat, angel,” Crowley pointed out, propping himself up on his elbows. "Honestly, it's a miracle you haven't melted out of that blessed coat of yours.”

Asa huffed. It was true, really, and he was aware that he probably did look rather absurd, in his vest and jacket and coat and necktie and britches but without socks or hose or shoes.

“And what, pray tell, would you rather me do?” Asa asked with a huff. “Strip down to my—to my knickers and—”

“Have a swim with me, Mr. Fell,” Crowley said, already levering himself upright and going to work on the buttons of his shirt (he'd long since done away with his own jacket and vest).

“What,  _ here _ ?” Asa asked in what could only be described as a squawk, as his eyes widened. “Where anyone could come by and see?”

“They won’t,” Crowley promised. “There’s not another soul out here for miles and miles. C’mon. What harm could it do?”

Asa stared into the water. Crowley  _ did  _ have a point. No one came out this far when there were other, more easily accessible parts of the river closer to town. And it was  _ awfully  _ warm, and…

There was Crowley, chest bare and making quick progress on his trousers.

“Oh, alright,” Asa finally relented. “But if anyone sees, on your head be it.”

“Naturally,” Crowley agreed, kicking his britches off his ankles.

Asa couldn't help but stare.

“What are you waiting for, angel? An engraved invitation?”

Asa shook himself from his reverie and huffed again before carefully removing and folding up his coat. Next came the necktie, then the jacket, then the vest, until he stood before Crowley in nothing but his shirtsleeves and trousers, which were already rolled up to his mid-calf.

Asa felt as if he had long since passed the line into  _ indecency _ and was now treading into something more. He noticed the way Crowley’s eyes drifted from his bare neck to his ankles and blushed.

“I’ll drag you in if I must,” Crowley threatened with a wry grin.

Asa rolled his eyes but slowly and precisely undid the buttons on his shirt.

(He also very thoroughly did  _ not _ pay attention to the way Crowley swallowed and licked his lips.)

And then the two of them were standing along the riverbank in nothing more than their pants.

They’d done this before, these impromptu swims, but it’s been years and  _ years _ , and as Asa stared at his oldest friend, he couldn’t help but think about how much things had changed.

He held his breath, and took a few steps into the water. It was cold, but not numbingly so, and the chill felt so divine against Asa’s heated skin that he couldn’t help by groan in relief.

“See?” Crowley teased. “Knew you’d like it.”

“I never argued with that, my dear,” Asa pointed out. “I simply had my dignity to consider. Not that you’d know anything about that.” He couldn't help but grin at Crowley’s faux-offended expression.

A moment later, he yelped and sputtered as Crowley splashed water into his face.

“You—Oh, you—Good  _ Lord _ —”

To that, Crowley simply threw back his head and laughed.

“Of course you find this amusing,” Asa muttered. “You absolute fiend.”

Crowley shrugged. “Eh,” he said. “Maybe so. But you ought to have seen your face, angel, it was hilar— _ ngk—pfft—shhh— _ ” Crowley's words were cut off with a splutter as he blinked the water from his eyes.

Asa couldn’t help but laugh as Crowley wiped a hand over his face, shaking his head like a wet dog.

“You know, I do believe you’re right,” Asa admitted. “This  _ is _ rather funny.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’re such a bastard, you know that?” he asked. “You act all— _ Oh, I’m so pious and pure and holy and _ —You’re not fooling me, angel.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Asa replied primly, running his fingers through his now-sopping hair. “Oh, look at the state of me. There’ll be no hiding this, we look like we’ve been caught in a rainstorm.”

“Angel, no one is going to give a damn about your wet hair.”

“But  _ I  _ do,” Asa insisted. “I do have standards, you know. And what if someone  _ does _ ask, hm? What am I going to say?”

“I dunno,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Make something up. You were, ah,  _ thwarting nefarious wiles _ or something like that. Saw some local—some local  _ hoodlums _ committing some devious acts, tried to stop them, got a wet head for your trouble. Gabriel will give you a blessed medal.”

“Oh, I never should’ve—” Asa continued to fret, wading back to shore. “This was an awful idea, I can’t—”

“Relax, angel,” Crowley interrupted, grabbing Asa by the shoulder. “No one is going to notice. They never do.”

Asa froze.

How long had it been since he felt the warmth of someone’s skin against his own? How long had it been since someone had reached out?

How long had it been, that a simple touch had Asa losing his mind?

“Mr. Crowley,” he murmured, turning just slightly to look Crowley in the eye.

Crowley ran his hand down Asa’s arm, squeezing Asa’s hand for a moment before letting go. “There’s no need to fret,” he said quietly. “There’s no one around but us. No one to care but us. Just you and me.”

Asa took a deep breath and followed Crowley back into the river.

**

_ My Dearest, _

_ I must ask for your forgiveness for what I am to write, for I must confess I have never before found myself subjected to such fits of ridiculous, childish folly, such absurd, irrational feeling. _

_ I am jealous, my angel, green around the gills with envy, pulled apart by wrath, every time I think of all of those who see you. _

_ Those fools who are graced with your presence, who are privileged enough to see you and speak with you and know the joys of your good company, and yet take it for granted. Every shopkeeper and baker and smith and stablehand, every councilman and priest, every stranger in the street who looks upon your figure, they are each of them luckier than all gamblers of the world, for they have the chance to know you. _

_ What wouldn’t I give for just a taste of that blessedly good fortune? What would I not do to touch, to hold, to hear your laugh, to see your smile with my own two eyes? _

_ Just to know you, my darling, just for a second, would be worth all the treasures of the world. _

_ Surely this must be Hell, knowing that there are others who are given the chance to spend these moments with you, these moments that I would die for, and yet squander such a splendid opportunity. _

_ My beloved, do you see how I could so easily be driven to sin? How envy and wrath and greed could plague my every waking moment? _

_ How terrible, how wonderful, this love is. How high it brings me, and how low. _

_ That you are my roots, buried deep in the earth, the filth and the muck and the mud, and yet also my tallest branches, reaching for the heavens, brushing with divinity as they strain towards the sun. _

_ You are my best and my worst and my everything in between, all my wishes upon every star, all my prayers upon every bent knee, more essential than the air that I breathe. _

_ And oh, my sweet, how I long for you. _

_ Yours, Without Ceasing, _

_ Angel _

**

“Tell me about London,” Crowley said, looking up from the sketch pad in his lap. There was black smeared across his brow and around his ear from where he’d tucked his piece of charcoal.

“Come again?”

“London, angel,” Crowley insisted. “I’ve never—I’ve never been, you know. Tell me about it.”

“Oh,” Asa said, carefully setting down his pen. “Well, it’s loud. Very, terribly loud. There’s hardly a place in the whole city where one can find any sort of peace and quiet. And the smells—I’ve never experienced such a horrid combination of scents in all my life.  _ And  _ it’s dirty. There’s rubbish along every street, and the grime and smoke clings to the skin—”

“And you loved it,” Crowley interrupted.

“I—”

“Don’t deny it, angel. Isn’t lying against the commandments?”

Asa bit his tongue.

It, in fact,  _ was _ .

“I will admit that I was… fond of my time in the city,” he conceded quietly. “It’s—oh, Crowley, there’s  _ freedom _ there, a sort of freedom that you can hardly imagine until you’ve had it. All sorts of people live there, all together, walking down the same streets and eating the same food and breathing the same air. No one is exactly the same, and it’s that uniqueness that keeps everyone together. And the  _ shops _ , Crowley—the shops, and the restaurants—oh, there’s so much to  _ do _ —”

“Asa,” Crowley said slowly, “can I ask you a question?”

“I…” Asa began, a bit skeptical about Crowley’s tone. “I  _ suppose _ .”

“Why are you here?”

“Well—I mean—I—it’s rather nice out, isn’t it? And—well, I enjoy your company, and as far as I can tell, we seem to have silently agreed to meet here every afternoon, and it would be  _ terribly  _ rude of me to simply not show—”

“No, angel,” Crowley interrupted. “Why are you—why are you  _ here _ ? In Eden? Why did you—why did you  _ come back _ ?”

Asa huffed. “I—I had to, Crowley! I— _ Your lot _ may not understand it, but some of us  _ do _ have responsibilities, some of us know our place, know our duties to our families and the Almighty—”

“Oh, well, that's a bit  _ holier-than-thou _ , now isn't it?” Crowley accused, his golden eyes narrowing.

“As a matter of fact, I  _ am  _ a great deal holier-than-thou!” Asa shot back, regretting the words even as he said them, but yet unable to stop himself. “I—I’m a  _ minister _ , Mr. Crowley—a servant of the Lord!”

“I suppose that's why you spend so much time on your knees then, hm?” Crowley spat.

Asa felt his face flush, with anger or embarrassment, he didn't know.

_ Once. _ They'd—It had happened once, before both of them realised they much preferred simple forms of affection to more…  _ strenuous _ efforts.

And now—And now Crowley—He—

“Well.” Asa let out a small sigh. “I do believe I should be heading home. Mr. Crowley, I—I shall see you… at a later date.” He gathered his things in his arms, well aware that he looked ridiculous. “God bless you,” he said, and turned and left for Eden.

**

Asa did not see Crowley the next day, nor did he see him the day after that. In fact, he did not see Crowley again for the next week, instead remaining in his rooms, rereading his letters.

He'd received two new ones that week, and it seemed his melancholic mood was contagious.

_ I hope you never find yourself hurting the way I hurt now, angel, for the thought of you suffering this way must itself be a crime _ , the first letter read.

_ Tell me who has caused you pain, my darling, and I'll see to it that they never so much as darken your doorstep again, _ Asa responded. _ A soul as kind as yours does not deserve any sort of torment, and you should know that, whatever Guardian Angels I may have watching over me, I have, instead, sent Them to you. _

_ And as for your Angels, you ought to keep Them for yourself, my dearest, for what need do I have for Them when I have you, here, with me? _

Asa was loathe to admit that he'd sported quite a blush over that particular line.

He knew he ought to be content—he had love, company, companionship, even if he was unsure as to who was providing it. He did not need anything more—surely, the space from Crowley must be a  _ good _ thing. Best not give old feelings a chance to bloom anew, not when the beauty of new love flowered more with every passing day.

But the days were long, even as the evening drew in quickly and the night lingered longer, and before Asa knew what he was doing, he was packing a basket with double portions of lunch and taking his old quilt out of the closet.

It never hurt to be prepared, after all.

**

Crowley stood underneath the willow's branches, just as Asa somehow knew he would be.

“Mr. Fell,” he finally spoke after a second of silence, stumbling over his words in his hurry to get them out. “I, uh, I was just leaving. Hope you enjoy your lunch.”

“Mr. Crowley, dear,” Asa said, reaching out and grabbing the man's sleeve. “I… I realise I said some rather horrible things the last time we—well, the last time we saw each other, and I do hope you can find it within yourself to forgive me.”

Crowley blinked at him once.

“Consider it done,” he murmured.

Asa beamed.

“I don’t—I suppose—rather—well, do you think could perchance stay just a few minutes more? I seem to have, well… over packed, as it were.”

It was wrong. It was so, so wrong. It had always been… it had always been rather  _ unseemly _ , mind, but now…

The letters stored in the chocolate box in his wardrobe haunted him as he grinned at Crowley.

“I suppose I do have a few more minutes to spare,” Crowley said. “For a friend.”

“My  _ dearest _ friend, Crowley,” Asa said, and he felt his heart twist at the words.

Love, he supposed with a strange sort of remorse, surely did make fools of us all.

**

It was a guilt that lingered, sticking to Asa’s tongue and settling against the back of his teeth.

He felt helpless, caught up in some sickening web, unable to escape.

By day, Crowley, with his slanted smiles and brilliant golden eyes.

“D’you know,” he said one afternoon, leaned up against the willow tree, “They’ve started figuring how all of this works.”

“How all of  _ what _ works?” Asa asked, looking up from his book.

“All  _ this _ ,” Crowley said, waving his arms around. “Plants and all that.”

“They’ve figured out how  _ plants  _ work?”

“Mostly. Almost. At least, I think so. Apparently, it’s got something to do with the sun, and water, and a couple of things in the air.”

“So just like everything else on the planet—”

“No,  _ no _ , look, they’ve got—they’ve got this  _ stuff _ in them, in the leaves, and it makes sugar when the leaves get enough sun and water and whatnot, and then the plants  _ use _ the sugar to grow and—”

“Plants need sugar to grow?”

“No—I mean,  _ yes _ , but—”

“That’s nonsense, Crowley,” Asa said, rolling his eyes. He wasn’t going to admit it, but it  _ was  _ amusing to see the other man get so flustered. “We’d know if plants needed sugar. We—We’d be putting sugar in all the soil.”

“That’s the thing, angel!” Crowley argued. “They—the plants  _ make _ the sugar themselves!”

“All of them?” Asa asked, thinking of all the spinach and brussel sprouts and broccoli he’d eaten over the years.

“All of them,” Crowley confirmed.

“But—Crowley you can’t—Nothing is  _ made _ ,” Asa insisted, recalling the single class he’d taken on natural sciences. “It’s what that Newton fellow said, isn’t it? All that toss about matter and energy and whatnot.”

“‘Suppose plants are a bit magic, then,” Crowley said with a shrug. “A couple of miracles leftover from Eden. Or something like that.”

Asa didn’t know why, but he blushed.

(And, if he actually cared to admit it, he did, in fact, know  _ exactly _ why.)

A miracle indeed.

By night, however, there were the letters, given life by the candlelight.

_ What do you know of the stars? _ they said,  _ Of all that glitters in the cosmos? Do you know that they form out of the collapse of a cloud? That the sparks are scattered as the weight of it all falls inward? Do you know that we are made of the same stuff as those stars, that our very being is tied to the heavens? _

_ Do you know that every time I look upon you, I too collapse? That every one of your smiles gives birth to a million, billion stars? The weight of your love, and my own love for you, is enough to set the star stuff in me alight, and I fear one day I shall burst and burn out, losing myself entirely to the majesty of you. _

_ Do you know that the stars are perfectly in balance? The pull of gravity, the push of light, holding onto each other in the most wonderful harmony. So too are you and I. You the light and I the gravity, dependent upon each other, creating magic to rival all the beauties of the Earth. _

It left Asa breathless, reeling against the intensity of such love and devotion.

He felt as if he were caught up in some torrid affair, trading loving words with one man and loving looks with another. It was a truly ridiculous scenario to be in—he wasn’t some star-crossed Shakespearean lover. His life was not some dramatic fairy tale told to children before they slept.

And yet…

What a strange turn of events, to go from loveless to  _ this _ in such a short time.

It almost felt as if the Heavens had opened, the stars that his secret love was so fond of aligned, like Asa himself had a little of that magic, that miracle leftover from Eden.

**

“How’re your letters coming along?” Crowley asked, sitting up from where he’d been lying on his back atop the blanket. “Still using all of your charms on the poor chap?”

“All my—I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, don’t play coy, angel,” Crowley replied with a roll of his eyes. “You know what it is. You bat those lashes and smile and toss those blonde curls and—you  _ know _ .”

“I most certainly do  _ not _ ,” Asa argued. “I never—and even if I did, which I  _ don’t _ , it’s not as if we’re seeing each other in person, and I could hardly use those  _ charms  _ over letters.”

Crowley chuckled to himself. “If you say so.”

“I very well  _ do _ .”

They were quiet for a moment.

Crowley had paint smeared across his hands and face—he’d been using watercolours, lately, and had a terrible habit of tapping his paintbrush against his face while he was thinking—and his auburn hair was growing out again, to the point where he’d tied it back with a piece of black ribbon. He had his glasses on again, the small oval frame slipping down his nose so that Asa could just see the tops of his golden eyes.

“What about you, then?” Asa asked, surprising even himself. “Have you found a…  _ special someone _ ?”

“A—a  _ special someone _ ?” Crowley sputtered, laughing between the words so that the sibilants sounded almost like a hiss. “Is that—oh, angel, that—”

“A lover, paramour, sweetheart, suitor,  _ what have you _ —”

“No, angel,” Crowley interrupted, his tone more serious.

“No one?”

“No one at all.”

“That hardly makes sense, my dear,” Asa said, eyebrows furrowing together. “You—well, you’re a gentleman in fine standing, from a family that, while maybe not the  _ most  _ morally upright, certainly has the means to provide any lucky person with a comfortable life. You’re—well, you’re charismatic, and intelligent, and rather funny, not to mention attractive—”

“You find me attractive, angel?” Crowley asked, a lilt to his voice that already had Asa rolling his eyes.

“Don’t be—you know I—oh, just  _ hush _ , would you?”

Crowley grinned at him. “Not all of us have people sending us anonymous love letters,” he teased. “Some of us have to actually  _ try  _ to find our  _ special someone _ .”

“And you’re trying, then?”

It was a stupid question. A nosy, meddling, unnecessary question that would serve no purpose but to inevitably upset Asa when he heard the answer. He had, as Crowley had said, already been lucky enough to find someone with whom he connected. There was no point in—in  _ yearning _ after someone else, someone he could never have. There was no point in asking truly idiotic questions that would make him envious of someone he’d never met.

Asa still couldn’t help but ask it.

“‘Suppose that depends on how you define  _ trying _ ,” Crowley mused after a brief pause. “I’m allowing my aunt to try. You ought to see the girls she brings around, angel. Duller than a butter knife, most of them. Not an interesting thought in their heads.”

“But  _ you _ aren’t…  _ pursuing _ anyone.”

“How could I when I’m out here with you every blessed day?”

“Oh,” Asa said, trying his best not to smile. “I rather do suppose you’re right.”

“I usually am, angel.”

They lapsed into silence again as a breeze shook the branches of the old willow tree.

**

Asa's mysterious suitor had, on many occasions, claimed to have no talent for poetry, but Asa was of the private opinion that his— _ person _ —was also a filthy liar.

The poetry was rarer than the prose, of course, but when it came, it carried a certain sort of magic in its words.

_ My love, my angel,  _ one read,  _ you must know _

_ The full extent to which _

_ The weight of your sacred sentiments _

_ Possess me _

_ That in your absence _

_ The ghost of you does sit beside me _

_ And whispers in my ear the sweetest memories _

_ Of you _

_ Of your lips _

_ And how they kiss and smile _

_ Of your hands _

_ And the warmth of their tender embrace _

_ Of your eyes _

_ And how they hold the whole of the heavens within them _

_ Those heavens _

_ Which you do proclaim to love _

_ Stay in heaven, my sweet angel _

_ Even as I am cast out _

_ For I would fall a thousand times _

_ If you would keep my heart _

_ Which you have already stolen _

_ Hold it hostage _

_ And I will delight in the brilliance of you _

_ You, who surely outshines all of those heavenly bodies _

_ While I remain _

_ Plagued by memories _

_ And haunted by ghosts _

**

“Do you still play?” Crowley blurted out, the abruptness of his words startling the pen out of Asa’s hand.

“I beg your pardon?” Asa asked, quickly picking up his pen and praying he hadn’t gotten too much ink on his latest letter.

“Violin,” Crowley stated. “I—I just—I was wondering if you still play. You were always bloody good at it, and I—I dunno. Was curious.”

Asa blinked at him. “I… not much anymore, I’m afraid,” he muttered.

He’d tried, since he’d returned to Eden. So many times, he’d picked up his violin and his bow and stood absolutely stock still in the silence, his mind blank, unable to conjure a single note.

“That’s a shame,” Crowley said, twirling a piece of charcoal between his fingers. “I always loved hearing you play.”

Asa blushed and looked away. “What about you, then?” he asked, his eyes glued to the pimento sandwich his was carefully pulling from their picnic basket. “Still playing piano?”

“Sometimes,” Crowley replied. “S’not much fun, playing by yourself with no one to listen.”

“With no one to shower you with praises, you mean,” Asa pointed out, a small smirk on his face.

“Oi! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, don’t try and play dumb with me, Anthony James Crowley,” Asa insisted, finally looking up and meeting Crowley’s eye, a mischievous look on his face. “I’ve never seen someone preen as much as you did when Ms. McDormand said she enjoyed your performance of Chopin’s prelude in d-flat major.”

“Oh, shut it,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “As if you don’t enjoy it just as much as I do.”

“Oh, I’ve  _ never _ been such a—a  _ diva _ , my dear, and we both know it,” Asa argued. “I play because I  _ enjoy playing _ —”

“And because Gabriel made you start.”

“Perhaps, but I grew to love it in my own right.”

“Then why’ve you stopped?” Crowley asked (that was what Crowley  _ did _ —he asked and asked and asked and  _ asked _ , also so curious, always so full of questions; oftentimes, Asa had wondered what it must be like inside that head of his, what it must be like to never be content in your own knowledge, to always want to know and understand  _ more _ ).

Asa stared up into the branches of the willow tree, up where the sunlight shone through the leaves. There was a nest tucked away in one of the uppermost branches, and Asa could hear the peaceful melody of birdsong.

“I suppose I just don’t know what to play,” he murmured.

There was a hand on his knee, and the contact shook Asa from his reverie.

“Perhaps…” Crowley said, and there was a certain weight to the word. “Perhaps you could visit sometime. Bring your violin. There’s—Surely between the two of us, we can find something worth playing. Surely there’s a song out there for us.”

Asa felt as though his heart was expanding past the bounds of his ribcage, as if he himself were about to burst, so full of—so full of  _ longing _ , so full of  _ yearning _ , so full of  _ love _ was he.

How did Crowley do it? How did he manage to have so much control over Asa’s emotions? How did he always say just the right words in just the right way to leave him an unraveled mess upon the ground?

And how greedy was he to  _ want it _ ? To desire those words, those smiles, the light in those honey-gold eyes, when he already had love enough within him? When his heart was already bound to another?

Asa almost felt sick from the rush of it all, like he’d been spun around and around and around, dizzy and nauseous.

And yet, that evening, when Asa picked up his violin once again, when he remembered how lovely it had been, to sit below their old willow tree and hear the birds sing and feel the weight of Crowley’s touch, the music came easy.

**

Autumn blew in as it always did in Eden—with rain that lingered just enough to ensure that no one ever felt dry.

Asa and Crowley continued to meet under the willow tree, now each with a large umbrella along with their usual supplies.

“I hate this bloody rain,” Crowley muttered as he situated himself upon the quilt. “It’s so blessed hard to get the charcoals to work in this weather.”

“What  _ have  _ you been drawing, my dear?” Asa asked, peering at the sketch over Crowley's shoulder.

“Ah, it's nothing,” Crowley insisted, but Asa wouldn’t hear it.

“Come on now, my dear boy, I'm sure whatever it is, it's positively lovely,” he insisted.

“Nah,” Crowley said. “It's only, uh—I mean, it's nothing special, just a couple of—a couple of plants—”

“Oh,” Asa said, and if he sounded a bit more upset than absolutely necessary—well, that was hardly his fault, was it? “Well, if you'd really rather me not see them—”

“Fine,” Crowley snapped, rolling his eyes in what Asa was sure was  _ supposed _ to be exasperation, but mostly just looked like fondness. “If you're going to keep going on about it—but don't get your hopes up, angel, they're—they're not—I'm not some fancy London artist, alright?”

“Oh, certainly not,” Asa said with a small, sly smirk. “I would never dream of thinking otherwise.”

He gingerly took the sketch pad being offered to him.

Sure enough, the page was  _ full _ of sketches of every type of plant Asa could think of, and there, in the centre of it all, was an apple tree. It was lovingly drawn and awfully familiar, poking at the edges of Asa's subconscious.

“It’s, ah, it's the one from Mrs. McDormand's garden,” Crowley said softly as Asa's eyes traced the shape of it, the twisting, sometimes jagged branches of the tree. “I always—well, her apples just taste  _ better _ , I suppose, and I guess there  _ is  _ something to be said for the nostalgia factor—”

“You don’t have to explain,” Asa interrupted. “I understand. I understand _ perfectly. _ It’s… it’s lovely, Crowley.”

“No need to cushion my feelings, angel, I—”

“Oh, do be quiet,” Asa interrupted. “It  _ is _ lovely, and I would rather you not call me a liar.”

Crowley scoffed. “If you insist, angel.”

There was a signature at the bottom of the paper, a heavy black squiggle above sharply written letters bearing the initials  _ AJC. _

There was something about those letters, about that mark, that pulled at something within Asa’s chest.

“You ought to show this to someone, Crowley,” he said. “It really is wonderful.”

“Nah,” Crowley muttered. “I'm not—I'm alright, angel, but I'm not  _ good _ . Not  _ that  _ sort of good.”

Asa frowned. “You know, I wish—well, I simply wish you weren’t so hard on yourself, my dear. You really—you shouldn’t say such cruel things about yourself.”

Crowley scoffed. “It’s not  _ cruel _ , angel,” he said quietly. “It’s  _ true _ .”

“Crow—”

“My—those—the sketches? They’re decent, alright? Nothing  _ terrible _ , but they’re certainly not something to write home about—”

“I think they are,” Asa insisted. “I think—well, I think this drawing might be the loveliest I’ve ever seen, and if you’re not going to—if you’re not going to  _ appreciate it _ , then I think I’ll just—”

Asa ripped the piece of paper from the sketch pad before Crowley could even begin to protest.

And revealed the drawing underneath.

It was Asa, undoubtedly, but it was not Asa in any way the man himself could recognise.

Asa-in-the-drawing stood in the centre of a garden, a long, white robe falling from his shoulders. Honeysuckle curled around his wrists, while calla lilies bloomed under his feet. His face was tilted towards the sun, illuminated by a soft golden light.

The picture was painted with watercolours, light and almost ethereal in a way that left Asa breathless.

“Oh  _ Crowley _ ,” he gasped, his fingers running lightly over the lines of the painting, careful not to smear anything.

Crowley snatched the notepad away in the next instant.

“That—fuck, that—ignore that, angel, I—fucking—just forget it, please—”

“Crowley, it’s—it’s  _ wonderful _ , why would I— _ how _ could I—”

“ _ Asa _ —”

“No,” Asa snapped, taking the heavy papers back from Crowley’s hands. “I won’t  _ forget it _ , Crowley, how could I? It’s… my  _ dear _ ,” he murmured, looking more closely at the stunning art in his hands.

Something was written along the edge of the painting, like a border.

_ Whatever Guardian Angels I may have watching over me, I have, instead, sent Them to you _ , it said.  _ Thy love blesses even this most tattered soul _ , it said.  _ Thy words could fell even the holiest of Angels, for love like this finds its only rival in that of God Himself _ , it said.

Asa couldn’t breathe, the air turning to ash in his lungs.

“I—what—how—” he stammered.

There was panic written on Crowley’s face. “Angel, I—”

“How could that—all this time?” Asa whispered. “It was—Crowley?”

“I can explain,” Crowley rushed to say. “I—I swear, I—honestly, angel, I—”

“Did you write them, Crowley?” Asa pressed, willing his hopes not to rise.

There was silence. A horrible, heavy, stifling silence, slipping down Asa’s throat and catching there, suffocating him. Crowley didn’t meet his eyes as he hissed a quiet, “ _ Yes _ .”

Asa’s body seemed to move of its own accord, his hand reaching out to cup Crowley’s face, his thumb stroking over the sharp ridge of his cheekbone.

Crowley simply stared at him.

“Oh my dear,” Asa murmured, the words hardly more than a breath. “How foolish I’ve been.”

“Asa, what—”

“If you want me to stop, just say,” Asa said quietly, before drawing nearer to close the space between them.

It wasn’t the first time he’d ever kissed Crowley. It wasn’t even the dozenth time. In fact, it might’ve been closer to the  _ hundredth _ time.

Somehow, it still felt new.

New, and yet heartachingly familiar, like the feeling of notches in the wood of an old willow tree, the weight of a violin in hand, the taste of Miss Tracy’s biscuits and the scent of cinnamon cocoa and the sound of rain against already-drooping leaves.

Crowley gasped, one arm wrapping around Asa’s waist as the other hand tangled in the messy curls of his hair.

“ _ Angel _ ,” he sighed.

“My  _ dear _ ,” Asa replied.

He tugged Crowley closer, chest-to-chest so that he could feel the other man’s heart beat in tandem with his own, and Crowley’s hands moved to grab Asa’s biceps, holding him there.

“I didn’t…” Crowley began as they both pulled back for air, their foreheads resting against each other. “I didn’t think you’d—I didn’t think you could—I was so sure—”

“Oh, darling,” Asa said, placing the lightest of kisses to each of Crowley’s cheeks. “I always hoped it was you. I felt—I felt so guilty, reading those letters and always imagining it was your hand that wrote them. You—I  _ love you _ , my dear.”

“I love you too,” Crowley croaked, before ducking to capture Asa’s mouth in another kiss, and his hands moved, skittering along the edges of Asa’s vest, reaching for skin.

It wasn’t anything…  _ explicit _ . Nothing between them ever had been. It was the simple search for the warmth, the reassurance, the  _ realness _ that came with the brush of skin against skin.

It was that lightest touch of Crowley’s fingertips against his stomach that sent Asa tumbling backward into the rain with a gasp.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, his eyebrows furrowed in concern, head tilted to the side. His mouth was red. His eyes were wide. He was  _ beautiful. _

Asa panicked.

“I—” he began, blinking the water from his eyes as the full extent of what had just happened hit him.

He was going to be a  _ minister _ . A Leader of the Church, an Example Unto The Lord’s People, a Servant of the Almighty. People would be  _ watching him _ . People could  _ see _ . And if they saw—if they saw Crowley, they would—and Gabriel would—

“I can’t do this!” he cried at once, scrambling back, further out into the rain. “ _ We can't do this _ , Crowley! Not—not again! I can’t—I won’t risk it.”

Crowley stared at him, his features twisting in grief. “Asa,” he said weakly. “ _ Angel _ .”

“If they—if Gabriel finds out, he’ll—I can’t have you risking your life, Crowley. Not again. Not even for me.”

The words were broken, jagged and cutting, ripping at Asa’s throat and leaving bloody, open wounds in their wake.

“Isn’t that my choice to make?” Crowley hissed. “Don’t you trust me? After all this time?”

“Of course I trust you!” Asa cried. “But I’m not going to put you in danger for something so selfish—”

“So I’m selfish now, am I?”

“No!” Asa protested. “I just—you  _ go too fast _ , Crowley!  _ Please _ , listen to me! It’s  _ dangerous _ —”

“I don’t care! Fuck the risk, Asa! Big, fat bollocks to it being  _ dangerous _ ! This is  _ worth it _ —”

“ _ Nothing _ is worth losing you!” Asa shouted.

Crowley finally went silent.

“You can’t—I can’t  _ lose you _ , Crowley,” Asa whispered. “I’m not taking that chance.”

Crowley didn’t speak. He opened his mouth and closed it again before making a choked off  _ ngk _ sound in the back of his throat.

He stood up and left without another word.

**

Asa hadn't been afraid, once. He'd been young, been foolish, thought himself indestructible and untouchable and infallible, nineteen and floppy-haired and bright-eyed and  _ stupid _ .

So incredibly, unfathomably  _ stupid _ .

He and Crowley made fast friends—it almost wasn’t a choice. They were the only two boys their age in town. In a sense, they only had each other, and what else were they to do but bind themselves together at the hip, inseparable?

It had started as simply that—a necessary friendship between two people who seemed otherwise polar opposites—but as the years passed, things, as they tend to do,  _ changed _ .

Asa was still unsure as to who had initiated the first move of their little dance, but he often thought it was him, with that umbrella on the balcony, and again, when he asked Crowley to stay for supper that night when Miss Tracy had served fresh oysters (Crowley had never had an oyster before, something Asa say as a cardinal sin). It could have, however, been Crowley; after all,  _ he  _ was the one who climbed up Asa's balcony in the first place.

In the end, it didn't matter who started it.

What mattered was how it  _ continued _ .

It continued with daily meetings underneath the willow tree, where Crowley would draw and Asa would read and together they would ponder the wonders and ineffability of the universe, all the while glancing at each other and sharing small, secret smiles.

It continued with walks through town, the two of them popping into the bakery on the corner to buy scones and hot cocoa and croissants, their hips bumping together as they walked.

It continued with trips to see every theatre troupe that passed through their little town, where Asa had first fallen in love with  _ Hamlet  _ while Crowley groaned on about how the sad ones were  _ so dreadfully boring, really _ , and the interlacing of their fingers.

It continued with a kiss stolen behind the church, with Asa crowded against the wall, neither of them sure who started it but both of them clinging to the other like the last raft in a storm.

It continued with quiet declarations of love murmured against cheeks and lips and throats.

It continued, and Asa hadn’t ever been happier.

And then it  _ ended _ .

It ended because Crowley had once again climbed up onto Asa's balcony with that same damn grin, a basket slung over his arm.

“Not more apples, I hope,” Asa had said as he opened the door to let Crowley in.

“Not this time, angel,” Crowley had replied, leaning down to place a quick kiss on Asa's cheek.

It hadn’t been apples, but it had been a block of gouda, a loaf of brioche, a small container of blackberries.

It had been  _ lovely _ .

They laughed and ate and held each other close, lost and helpless against the sea of love they were both drowning in.

They kissed, there on the balcony, in front of the glass door to Asa's bedrooms, lit only by the stars.

They kissed, and neither of them noticed as the door into Asa’s room had slowly opened.

Neither of them noticed until it was too late, until Gabriel started shouting, screaming, raging,  _ seething _ , seeming to glow with righteous fury.

Crowley had leapt off the balcony before Gabriel could really see him, and Asa had been sent off to London three days later to study theology.

It started, and it continued, and it ended.

It  _ ended _ .

No matter how much Asa hated it.

**

The letters stopped.

It made sense, of course. It had Crowley who had been writing them, after all, but Asa still found himself disappointed when the next few days went by without a word.

It was ridiculous.

He had no one to blame but himself, after all.

**

Asa didn’t dare return to their tree. He couldn’t even bear thinking about it.

He’d never forgotten, of course, all those summers spent tucked away in the branches, out of sight, the winters hidden up in Eden’s attic, both of them leaning against the bricks of the chimney, wrapped up in a blanket that smelled of chocolate and cream from all the cups of cocoa Asa had spilled on it over the years. No, those memories were burned into his mind. Asa was sure he’d forget his own name before he forgot how it had felt to hold Crowley’s head in his lap on a warm spring day as he read aloud for the both of them.

He hadn’t forgotten, but he’d gotten better at not remembering.

All of that was gone, now. Now, he could hardly turn a corner without being bombarded by the image of Crowley, Crowley,  _ Crowley _ .

Crowley, sitting in the garden, a cigar between his lips.

Crowley, grinning at him in the parlour as Gabriel begrudgingly allowed him inside for tea.

Crowley, younger but just as spirited, hurling snowballs at Asa's window on a bright winter morning.

The world was no longer a thing that existed in the normal sense, instead becoming nothing more than an open canvas for all of Asa's painted memories.

The rain continued.

**

“Are you alright, Mr. Fell?” Miss Tracy asked as she brought in a dish of onion soup, steaming and hot, and placed it on one of the tables by Asa's bed. “That is, I don't mean to intrude, but you have seemed more… quiet, secluded, lately. Why, I don't think I've seen you leave this room in a week!”

“I'm fine, dear,” Asa said, forcing himself to smile. “Must be the weather, yes? Quite… quite dreary, you know. Awful, really.”

“Oh, yes,” Miss Tracy agreed. “Why, Mr. Shadwell from down the road was just saying that this sort of thing was highly unusual, and how someone really ought to look into it—”

“Look into the weather?” Asa asked.

“Well—yes, I suppose.”

“Ah,” he said, the word so short it most likely bordered upon rudeness.

Miss Tracy stared at him for another moment before setting the bowl down and wiping her hands on the tea towel she kept tucked into her apron. “Well, I do hope you get to feeling better, Mr. Fell,” she said. “It… it doesn't do, seeing you all put out like this.”

“I appreciate it, madame,” Asa replied, his next smile just a touch more sincere.

And with that, she left the room, and left Asa to again be alone with his thoughts.

**

“Have you given any consideration to your appointment?"”Gabriel asked one night at supper, eyes locked on Asa as he barely touched his roasted chicken.

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course. I, uh, I'm excited to my part in spreading the good news to all corners of the earth,” Asa said diplomatically.

“I hope you know what an honour and an undertaking this is, brother,” Gabriel continued. “Ministry is the most holy of all work, and it should occupy your  _ full  _ attention.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Asa said. “I’ll be sure to, uh, remain dedicated to the task ahead of me. It’s my pleasure to, well, serve the Almighty with all that is, um, within me. Rather.”

“Rather,” Gabriel repeated, but there was something  _ off _ about his tone. Dull, somehow. Or—But no. “I just wanted to make sure you weren't experiencing any  _ distractions _ . We are called to be fully dedicated to the Almighty and to the Great Plan.”

“Of course,” Asa agreed. “I’ve never—I’ve never presumed otherwise, dear brother. You mustn’t worry about me.”

“No,” Gabriel murmured. Asa fought not to twitch under the stare of Gabriel’s narrowed eyes. “I suppose not.”

**

He had only tottered out his room in search of another blanket. It seemed as if even the brightest fire couldn’t warm him, not any more, and so Asa had carefully crept out of his room to go check the down stairs linen closet for another quilt.

He’d stepped out into the world, his heel connecting with the old, squeaking wood of the floors that made up Eden.

In his room, it was almost possible for Asa to imagine he was—

Somewhere.

Somewhere  _ else _ .

(Somewhere where he wasn’t—wasn’t  _ alone _ , hadn’t been locked away in a prison built by his own  _ bleeding hands _ —)

But outside, where the old wall-mounted candelabras shone on dark wood panelling, where the walls were littered with paintings, portraits of men in black suits and white collars, women in high-necked gowns with too many buttons, it was impossible to ignore.

The house was empty. Gabriel was—Gabriel was doing whatever it was he fancied himself so  _ busy  _ with all the time, and Miss Tracy was in town, buying the things needed for the next few days’ meals, which left Asa, just Asa, alone in the house, slowly making his way down the hall.

With every step he took, the history of the walls around him weighed down, heavy and threatening to crush whatever was left of the fragile, stained-glass heart in Asa’s chest.

(Look at him, look at him, morbid as Shelley, spinning his own macabre metaphors and lost in his own stirred-up gravitas.)

He didn’t notice the next step.

His heel caught the edge of it, slipping, throwing him off balance, sending him tumbling down, down,  _ down  _ the stairs, banging into railings and walls until finally he reached the bottom, collapsing in on himself as he did, his leg twisting painfully as he landed on top of it.

He looked around, struggling to catch his breath.

This was it, then? This was how it was to be? The rest of his life, spent stumbling and spiralling down until he eventually landed, hard, caught up in aches and the pains and the  _ loneliness _ ?

_ God Almighty _ , Asa was  _ tired _ .

He was tired, tired of the feelings that were so sharp they sliced up the roof of his mouth, cut into his gums, just below his teeth.

Asa leaned his head against the wall, his leg twinging from where it was all twisted up beneath him, alone, alone, except for his  _ damned _ house and his own  _ damned _ memories, and cried

**

The days grew colder. It was a heavy sort of cold, the kind that crept underneath Asa's skin and settled deep in his bones. He could no longer linger by his windows, instead confined to a pile of large, woolen blankets that he kept wrapped around himself at all times as he sat by the fireplace in his bedroom.

He prayed that something— _ anything _ —would chase away the damned cold, the cold that seemed to have sunk all the down to the depths of Asa's soul, but as the days passed, Asa resigned himself to the knowledge that the cold was now just  _ a part of him _ .

This was his lot in life, he supposed.

Eden had always been a somber place—it was a house of the Lord, after all, not one of frivolous fancies—but in those days, as a frigid chill crawled across the dark grey stones, it had never felt more like a prison.

A holding cell where Asa waited for his execution.

**

November bled into December, and some cheeriness came with it. Wreaths and garlands appeared on the bannisters and the scent of chocolates and cherries and cinnamon filled the house. Not even Gabriel was immune to the happiness that permeated the air.

“The birth of the Almighty is the greatest cause for joy we have,” he said, pointing the tongs of his fork at Asa. “We ought to celebrate, to show our dedication to the Lord in this most holy time.”

“Of course,” Asa agreed, taking another bite of the thick broccoli and cheese soup Miss Tracy had prepared that evening.

“I’ve decided to host another gathering,” Gabriel continued, as if he didn’t hear the words out of Asa’s mouth. “A ball, this time, not some measly dinner. A real way to show the grandeur of God’s grace.”

“A… ball?” Asa repeated. “As in, a dance?”

“Yes, yes, obviously,” Gabriel said, rolling his eyes. “It’d be very  _ select _ , mind. No…  _ undesirables _ .”

“Oh?”

“Our family, of course. We’d invite down your cousins. The Crowleys would have to be invited, unfortunately. We’d cause quite a scandal otherwise, and the last thing we need is for the forces of Heaven to be involved in any  _ unpleasantness _ .”

“The Crowleys,” Asa said, feeling rather dumb.

“You know,” Gabriel said, waving his hand in the air. “Beatrix Crowley. I believe her nephew Anthony still lives with her, as well. The two of you sat across from each other at our last gathering, I think. Dreadful young man, in my opinion. Quite…  _ flamboyant _ , if you understand my meaning.”

“Ah,” Asa said, the air abandoning his lungs all at once. “Of course. How could I—how could I have forgotten. Anthony. He’s. Well. Quite.”

“ _ Quite _ ,” Gabriel repeated, though Asa thought he probably meant  _ quite _ in a very different way. “It would also be a celebration for  _ you _ , little brother.”

“Oh?” Asa asked, feeling his stomach drop. “Whatever for?”

“Your appointment has finally been confirmed,” Gabriel said with a smile. “You’ve been placed.”

Asa blinked. “Placed?”

“At a church, brother.”

“Where?” Asa asked, unable to form any sort of complex thought.

“Some place in Wales, can’t remember the name for the life of me. You’ll leave once spring comes and the roads clear—”

“ _ Wales _ ?” Asa stated. “You—Gabriel, that’s—”

“A bit of a ways, yes, but that’s where it’s been decided you’d be most effective. It’s all part of the Great Plan, brother.”

“The Great Plan,” Asa murmured, staring down into his soup.

Asa would never claim to be omniscient—such a thing was blasphemy, disrespect of the highest order—but he had always assumed the Great Plan was ineffable, the sort of thing that was above his own mortal understanding. That he was on Earth to care for and about others, to help people, to be kind, to show love, and that whatever the Almighty willed would, naturally, occur.

He never thought that the Great Plan was something people could claim to know. Something that humans could affect.

Her  _ certainly _ never though the Great Plan would take him to  _ Wales _ .

“The Almighty wills it, and the Almighty’s will be done,” Gabriel added.

Asa simply nodded and returned to his soup, ignore the growing pit in his stomach.

**

It did not snow on Christmas day.

It rarely snowed in Christmas, actually. It had only happened three times that Asa could remember, and each time had been treated like some sort of sign from the Almighty.

Instead, the winds whipped around Eden in a freezing frenzy, stirring up the dead, crunchy leaves that were laying on the ground and tossing them about. Asa saw them dance as he stared out of the large, frost-covered windows that lined the ballroom in Eden.

People would be arriving soon.

People, and Crowley.

Asa knew, logically, that whatever  _ awkwardness _ existed between the two of them was his own fault. He was the one who had pushed Crowley away, who’d insisted they stop, who’d said that Crowley  _ went too fast _ .

He’d done all of this himself.

It didn’t make it any less terrible.

“Please tell me you’re going to change,” Gabriel said as he rounded the corner into the ballroom, straightening his own neat bowtie. His suit was black and extremely well fitted.

Asa glanced down at his own clothes—his soft, cream frock coat, his velvet vest, his blue, white, and gold necktie. “Why?” he asked.

Gabriel sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is an  _ event _ , Asa. You can’t be seen wearing  _ day clothes _ .”

Asa, who was the sort of person who  _ only _ wore day clothes, pursed his lips.

He did, in fact, own a tailcoat, and a rather nice one at that. Blue, fitted, velvet, worn with a  _ specific  _ floral-patterned waistcoat that Asa had gotten to go with it, and a rather lovely silk tie. He’d purchased it for his graduation and had worn it exactly once.

“Fine,” he huffed, and made his way to his room to change.

If took rather longer than absolutely necessary?

Well then, he was simply making sure he met Gabriel’s particular standards.

By the time Asa emerged from his rooms, the party was in full swing. He could hear the hum of nonsensical pleasantries and meaningless chatter, the clinking of glasses, the swell of a violin. Eden glittered, alight with a thousand candles that flickered in the night.

People spun around the dance floor in pairs. Miss Device, a lovely young school teacher whose family ran the local library, smiled as she was led around by Mr. Pulsifer, a gangly fellow who (allegedly) worked as some sort of engineer and looked absolutely terrified. Mr. and Mrs. Young from down the lane smiled at each other as they shuffled around a single corner. Gabriel had, somehow, found himself with none other than Beatrix Crowley on his arm, and neither of them looked all too pleased about it. Even Asa’s cousin Solomon (who was quite possibly the most  _ unpleasant _ person Asa had ever met) was fumbling in circles around some poor young woman Asa didn’t recognise.

And over in the corner, sipping something dark and red out of a crystal glass, was Crowley.

He looked—

He looked  _ incredible _ . Dashing, like some sort of gentleman hero in a Bronte novel, and Asa found himself swooning like some sort of lovestruck maiden.

He blushed.

There was a table of food over in the opposite corner, heavy laden with hors d'oeuvre and pastries and chocolate cherries and candied almonds, and Asa resigned himself to lingering near it with a flute of champagne and a plate that he never let empty.

At least, that was the plan.

Asa was halfway through a gypsy tart when a voice from over his shoulder said, “Fancy seeing you here, angel.”

Asa choked.

“Oh!” he said after clearing his throat. “Mr—Mr. Crowley! How lovely to see you.”

“Likewise,” Crowley replied.

The look on his face was unreadable.

“I—well—I pray you’ve been well?” Asa asked.

“Keep praying.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

“Crowley, really—”

“Save your mercies, angel,” Crowley murmured. “I--I wasn’t being serious. I’m fine. You—It’s alright. You don’t need to—”

“Oh, good,” Asa rushed to say. “I—You see—I’d hate for us to—Well, that is to say—”

“Yes.”

“Quite.”

They were silent, for a moment, the two of them standing against the wall as the night swirled around them.

The two of them standing underneath a willow tree as the world swirled around them.

The two of them. Separate. Watching. Waiting.

All at once, Asa felt quite sick to his stomach.

“I—” he began, but the words caught in his throat, thick, whether it be with feeling or the wine he’d been drinking to _ stop _ feeling, Asa wasn’t sure. “Crowley,” he murmured, the only word he could force through his lips.

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley said, tucking his arm around Asa’s waist. “Let’s find somewhere quiet.”

**

They ended up in one of the sitting rooms down the hall. It  _ was _ quieter there, but if Asa tried, he could still hear the strain of a violin.

It was darker, too—lit by a single fireplace against the far wall.

“Crowley,” Asa repeated, but Crowley shook his head and took a seat on the sofa.

“It’s alright, Asa,” he said. “You don’t have to—stop apologising. It’s bloody irritating.”

“I’m not—” Asa started, but bit his tongue. “I wasn’t  _ apologising _ , Crowley.”

“Then what’s got you looking like a kicked puppy, hm? You’re over there doing that—doing that  _ thing _ you do with your face and your—and your  _ eyes _ and—”

“What  _ thing _ ?” Asa asked, eyebrows scrunching together (which, in fact, only increased the potency of the  _ thing _ that Crowley was talking about—not that Asa knew that) (except for, possibly, he did).

“You know,” Crowley said with a wave of his hand. “That—the  _ thing _ . Where you make your face all—like  _ that _ , yes, that, exactly that, what you’re doing  _ right now _ , for Go— _ someone’s sake _ , angel.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Asa replied. "Look, could you—could you be serious, just for a moment? Just this once? Please?"

Crowley's jaw snapped closed with anger audible  _ click _ , and his eyes narrowed. "Angel, I don't want to hear any more—any more  _ excuses _ , any more reasons why we—"

"No, that's not—" Asa snapped. "Would you just  _ listen _ ? Good Lord.

Crowley didn't say anything, and the room was quiet, for a moment, the only sound the crackling of the fire. He then waved his hand in a gesture that obviously said,  _ Well? I'm listening. _

“I…” Asa cleared his throat. He felt all of a sudden very, very exposed. “Gabriel’s told me where my…  _ appointment _ is going to be.”

“Oh,” Crowley said quietly, his face falling for just a second. “Where is it, then?”

“Somewhere in Wales,” Asa answered. “He’s unsure as to the details, but…”

“When do you leave?”

“Sometime in the spring, once the roads clear up enough to make the trip.”

Crowley nodded. His face seemed to flicker in and out of existence with every pass of the firelight. “So it’s happening, then. Really happening.”

“So it would seem,” Asa murmured, dejection evident in his voice.

And it was. It was really happening. He’d be leaving, soon. Sooner than he’d expected. He’d be leaving, leaving Eden and leaving Crowley, going off a hundred miles away. Alone. He’d be  _ gone _ .

At that moment, Asa couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the thought of going, of being  _ away _ , all of it being  _ over _ , really,  _ truly _ over. Of never reading in his room again, of never eating Miss Tracy’s trifle again, of never sitting beneath the old willow tree, of never having Crowley in his arms again.

It was too much. All of it, far, far too much.

Asa didn’t say any of it out loud. Instead, he took Crowley’s hand in his own, brought it to his lips in the gentlest kiss and whispered, “Dance with me?”

Crowley blinked up at him. “Really, angel?” he asked quietly, the words barely a whisper. “Here? Now? Anyone could—Anyone could walk in, they could  _ see _ —”

“Let them,” Asa interrupted. “Crowley,  _ please _ . Dance with me.”

“Of—Of course, angel,” Crowley stammered, quickly pulling himself to his feet.

The parlour was small and cluttered with furniture—a sofa, a bookcase, two chairs, three small tables—but the two of them stood in the middle of it all, staring at each other in the firelight.

Asa’s hands awkwardly flitted about, unable to decide where to land. Did he place them on Crowley’s shoulders, his waist? Did they stand straight-backed and stiff like members of the Queen’s court, or did they hold each other close, like lovers?

Asa knew exactly one dance. He’d learned it in London, on the rare nights when he would allow himself to be pulled from his apartments for whatever reason and found himself in something of a gentlemen’s club. It was called the  _ gavotte _ , and required a minimum of six people and a great deal more floor space than he and Crowley were currently privy to.

“I know this is terribly rude of me, my dear, seeing as I’m the one who insisted upon this in the first place, but you wouldn’t happen to mind leading, would you?” he asked quietly, looking up into Crowley’s eyes, wishing he could rid him of those horrible glasses.

“Er,” Crowley said, clearing his throat. “Not—ngk—not at all, angel.”

He pulled Asa closer, impossibly closer, and placed one hand on his waist.

Their lips nearly brushed with every breath, every breath of air shared between their lungs.

Their fingers interlaced, and Crowley began to lead them in slow, steady circles to the faint music from the other room.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Asa whispered, his words muffled by the silk of Crowley’s cravat, the stubble along his jaw. “I—could you ever forgive me?”

Crowley slowed, tilting his head down to look Asa in the eye.

He slowly removed his glasses and placed them on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Angel,” he whispered, “There’s nothing to forgive.”

One hand carefully moved to cradle the back of Asa's head, fingers threading through his curls, while the other came up to cup Asa's cheek.

They kissed as the snow began to fall.

**

“Did you enjoy yourself, brother?” Gabriel asked later that evening after the last of the guests had left.

Asa and Crowley had rejoined the party soon after the kiss, never more than two feet apart, and that much space was left only for appearance’s sake. They’d laughed and drank and shared more than a few plates of puddings and desserts.

“Oh, I had the most wonderful time,” Asa replied honestly, collecting a few plates from where they’d been left around the ballroom.

“Good,” Gabriel said, sneering as Asa carried the dishes to the cart Miss Tracy was loading up to take to the kitchen. “I saw you and that Crowley boy were getting along.”

“Crow— _ Mr. _ Crowley?” Asa said, catching himself at the last second. He paused for a moment. “Yes,” he admitted. “I suppose we were.”

“You remember what I said about him, yes?” Gabriel insisted. “He’s  _ trouble _ , Asa. He’s been seen out at night, dancing and drinking and—”

“Did we not just spend a rather lovely evening doing just that?”

Gabriel glared at him. “Asa,” he said, the words clipped and cold, “There are  _ rumours _ about that boy. Rumours that he has a particular  _ affliction _ that we wouldn’t want you to catch.”

“Gabriel—”

“You’ve already shown that you are weak when it comes to matters of the flesh,” Gabriel pressed on, “If you are to do God’s will, you cannot allow yourself to succumb to temptation. You must be  _ better _ than this, Asa.”

Asa stared at him for a moment, the words ringing in his ears.

Better than  _ what _ ?

Better than love? Than kindness? Compassion? Acceptance? Joy?

What on Earth could be better than what he had?

What in  _ Heaven _ could be better?

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he said evenly.

Gabriel nodded at him before turning on his heel and leaving Asa alone in the ballroom.

**

The letters resumed with more fervor than ever, and Asa could hardly keep his wits about him.

There was something about  _ knowing _ , about being  _ sure _ that the words he was reading came from Crowley,  _ his Crowley _ , that made him almost sick with joy.

January had settled squarely upon them, but the chill that had haunted Asa throughout the autumn had finally lifted.

_ The thought of you is enough to keep me warm on even the coldest of nights _ , he wrote,  _ but still I long for you. The light of your smile, the softest brush of your hand, the tender press of your lips against mine, I am an addict, my dear, aching for more of you. Always more _ .

**

They agreed to meet at Oliver Spit’s, a chocolate house in town, and Asa’s hands shook as he swung himself off of his saddle (and  _ good bloody riddance _ —he really  _ did _ hate horses).

They would be going out  _ together _ . In  _ public _ .

Asa couldn’t say he wasn’t worried.

But that was the point of bravery, he supposed, and he’d gladly be brave for Crowley.

He’d be just about anything, for Crowley.

The inside of the cafe was warm and smelled sweet, like chocolate and cinnamon and coffee and cream, and Asa fiddled with the edges of his soft leather gloves as he looked around for a long black coat, a shock of red hair.

“Mr. Fell,” Crowley said, appearing at Asa’s side seemingly out of thin air. He was smiling, his head tilted to the side. There was something captivating about him, something magnetic, something that drew the air out of Asa’s lungs and left him gasping for breath.

“Mr. Crowley,” Asa replied, fighting the similar grin that was creeping onto his own face. “You’ve been well, I hope?”

“All the better now, angel,” Crowley said with a wink, and Asa had no control over the blush that spread across his face. “We’ve already got a place to sit, I think.”

“Lead the way, my dear.”

And lead Crowley did. He guided Asa to the furthermost corner of the shop with a hand against the small of Asa’s back, and it was all Asa could do not to shiver from the heat of Crowley’s flesh seeping through his coat.

“So,” Crowley said as Asa sipped his cocoa.

“So,” Asa parrotted when Crowley didn't continue.

“Have you heard anything from your brother?” Crowley asked. “Anything about your… upcoming assignment?”

“I’m to leave for Port Talbot in April, I think,” Asa said.

“Port Talbot?” Crowley said in surprise. “So he's finally remembered where he's tossing you off to, then? How kind of him.” The words were bitter and flat.

“Crowley,” Asa reprimanded. “Let's not discuss this now, yes? We have so many other things to talk about. Like yesterday, I finished the most lovely novel. Honestly, Crowley, I know literature isn’t exactly your forte, but—”

The conversation continued like that for some time, the two of them going through coffees and teas and cocoa and all manner of baked goods for what felt like hours and seconds, minutes and days.

A fleeting eternity as their fingers twined together under the tabletop.

And when they finally made to leave, when they both stood and Crowley managed to pay for both of their tabs before Asa noticed, when they escorted each other out, Asa with a hand on Crowley's elbow, Crowley pulled them both over into the small alley space that led to the back of the shop.

“Angel,” he said quietly, blinking rapidly to disperse the fat snowflake that were clinging to his lashes.

He didn’t say anything else, but Asa understood all the same, and yanked him down by the lapels into a hot, heady kiss.

“I love you,” Crowley whispered as they broke apart, their foreheads resting against each other.

“Oh, my dear,” Asa murmured. “I’m not sure I know how to do anything else.”

**

_ My Dearest, _

_ You must forgive my silence for these past few days, for while I have longed for nothing more than to speak with you, when placing my pen to paper, I find myself possessed by the most chilling fear, one that stills my hand and my breath and the beat of my heart. _

_ I fear now, as I oft have, that no word that I may pull from the weather, that I may pluck from the wild, tangled web of my mind mind, will ever fully ensnare the true meaning and weight of that which I feel for you. _

_ Love has been called upon by too many men over too many years. Men greater than I, men far more adept than I with a pen, more far more familiar with the sweetest turn of phrase than I, they have all pulled apart the threads of love, unravelled it before our eyes. _

_ What can I say of you that Romeo has not already said of beloved Juliet? That Pylades has not already mentioned of treasured Orestes? _

_ And yet, you are more than each of these and all, and that which I feel for you is far stronger than anything that could ever be imagined by those petty examples. _

_ What is a stronger word than love? For surely four letters could not have the power to capture me as you have, to steal the air from my lungs, to take for ransom my foolish heart and tell it when to beat. _

_ There must be more than love, for all who have lived know of it, but none who have lived know of us, and thus their words must be incapable of defining the bond between you and I. _

_ And so I am tasked with coming up with a new word, one that can contain the oceans and plains and mountains and deserts of that which I do feel for you. _

_ A new word, to be whispered between only the two of us, a secret of the universe only we will know. _

_ A word that clings like the roots of a willow tree. _

_ A word that reaches upwards and grabs the stars from the heavens. _

_ I will find that word, my dear. I will find it and weave it into fibres of my skin, tie it to your heart and then to my own, never to part. _

_ I shall find it, some day, but until I have, you and I shall remain as we now are. _

_ Ineffable. _

_ Yes. Beyond Even The Edges Of The Earth, _

_ Angel _

**

They met at least twice a week, usually at some coffee house or cafe or the Devices' library, to sit and talk and see just how close they could get to one another without arousing suspicion.

Crowley had his arm slung across the back of their shared sofa at said library, his fingertips stroking the top of Asa's shoulder, when he asked, “What do you what to  _ do  _ with your life, angel?”

Asa automatically stiffened. “Well I suppose I wish to serve the Almighty to the best of my human ability, my dear,” he said cautiously, glancing around even though the only other person in the library was Anathema, and while she was most definitely listening, she wasn't going to say anything.

“Not—We both know that's a whole load of rubbish,"”Crowley pointed out, tilting his head back so he could more easily look Asa in the eye. “What do you  _ want _ ? If you could do anything—anything at all, anything the whole, great, big, wide,  _ bloody  _ universe—what would it be?”

“I…” Asa began, and then paused for a moment to think.

What  _ did  _ he want?

Without Gabriel or Eden or expectations weighing him down, what was it that he  _ wanted _ ? Longed for? Yearned for, pined after,  _ desired _ ?

Crowley, of course, but that much was implied, so…

“A bookshop, I think,” Asa finally answered. “I want a bookshop with every type of book imaginable. I want it on the corner of a street in Soho. I want a little flat above it, and a good reading chair, and lots of blankets. I want—oh, Crowley, I want—”

All of a sudden, Asa realised he was blinking back tears.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley said quickly, moving to cup Asa's face in his hands.

“It’s fine,” Asa insisted. “It’s  _ fine _ , Crowley.”

Crowley didn’t seem to believe him, which was fair, seeing as Asa didn't even believe himself.

“What about you, my dear?’ he asked, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his coat pocket. “What do you—what do  _ you _ want?”

Crowley sighed. “Well,  _ I _ suppose I want to work in—oh, I dunno. Something with investment? Something with banking? Something in London, of course, so I can visit a little bookshop in Soho. Perhaps if I’m lucky, the owner would let me share the little flat above it with him, and we—well, it’ll be just the two of us, won’t it? And if things go tits-up, we can just… go off together,” he explained, sounding nonchalant in a way that only came about through tremendous effort.

“Go off together?” Asa asked quietly.

“Well, obviously,” Crowley said. “We’ll have a—an arrangement, of sorts, and if things go wrong…”

“Oh Crowley,” Asa murmured, squeezing Crowley’s hand. “My  _ dear _ .”

“‘S just a thought, angel.”

“I know,” Asa muttered. “A  _ lovely _ thought.”

“Asa,” Crowley said all of a sudden, “why don’t we—what’s stopping us? Why can’t we—we could just  _ go _ . Tonight, even. Pack our bags and leave. I’ve got—I’ve got a new horse, her name’s Bentley, she’s a  _ wonderful _ thing, only good one in her whole blessed species, she could get us to London by morning and—”

“You know I can’t do that, Crowley,” Asa retorted. “You know—oh, what would Gabriel say? What would  _ your _ family say? We both know how nasty your lot can be, and I couldn’t bear it if they were to—that is to say, if something happened to you because of  _ me _ .”

The tears he thought had dried were flowing freely, now, down his cheeks and onto the collar of his shirt.

“We’re risking just as much here, angel,” Crowley pointed out. “We’re already—leaving just means maybe getting something  _ more _ . Don’t you want more, Asa? More than this?”

Asa felt a pang in his stomach.

Of  _ course _ he did. He wanted it all, he wanted everything, he wanted as much of Crowley as he could have, but—

“If we leave,” he said slowly, “They’ll look for us. We won’t be—They’ll come for us, and when they find us they’ll—No, Crowley. We can’t. I won’t hear another word of it.”

Crowley stared at him for a moment, and Asa wished for nothing more than to be able to see his eyes.

“Alright then, angel,” Crowley finally muttered.

Neither of them mentioned it again.

**

_ My Sweet Angel, _

_ At night I stare up into the sky, and I find my comfort in knowing that the stars that shine upon me are the same that shine upon you. _

_ I once said that I did not trust the poets when they said that there was love to be found in every crevice of the universe, but you have since made a believer out of me. You have filled me up to the top of my soul, and I am now overrun with your love. I find it in the blue of the sky, which echoes the blue of your eyes. I find it in the joyful bubbling of the streams, which remind me of the joyful sound of your laugh. I find it in the sweetness of the honeysuckle that bloom, for they remind me of the sweetness of your smile. _

_ There is love in all the world, but only because you have placed it there, a treasure for me to find. _

_ You have carved faith from my marble heart, you in all your loveliness like a chisel, chipping away at me. _

_ And I, who before knowing you could pen no better words than the old Sergeant we both know, have been crafted into a poet of my own right (of my own write, more like) if only to compose the hymns of you. _

_ And I will be singing your praises until the end of my days. _

_ Yours With Every Breath I Breathe, _

_ C _

**

“Going out again?” Miss Tracy asked as Asa grabbed his coat off the rack.

“Oh, yes,” Asa replied, making quick work of the buttons. He smoothed out the wrinkles in the front of his heavy winter coat and dusted off his hat before carefully situating it on top of his head. “I've a meeting in town, you see.”

“And you've had meetings all week, I suppose?” Miss Tracy asked, tilting her head just barely to the side.

“Oh, I—I suppose I have,” Asa said, scratching behind his ear.

“And all last week as well, then?”

As smiled and cleared his throat, his hands moving to twist the gold signet ring on his pinky. The very same singer he used to seal all his letters to Crowley. “Well, I—there's so much to do, what with my—what with me leaving soon and all,” he stammered. “I just—I wanted to get my affairs in order before I—well. Left. Rather.”

“Your affairs?” Miss Tracy asked, raising a single eyebrow.

“Well, I—” Asa stuttered. “My books, you see. There's a rather lot of them, you know, and I—I couldn't—I can't take all of them all the way to Wales, so I'm… donating them. To the Device's. The library. Yes.”

The lie was a rather good one, he thought.

“Well if that's all then,” Miss Tracy said, seemingly placated.

“Yes, that's it,” Asa repeated. “It's all—it's taking quite a bit of time, getting it all sorted, but it—it's quite alright. Not an issue. Tickety-boo.”

“I see,” Miss Tracy replied. “In that case, I'd best not keep you waiting.”

“Quite right,” Asa said with a sharp nod. “Quite.”

Miss Tracy's eyes were wide as she nodded, and Asa almost tripped over himself in his haste to make it out the door.

He was in such a hurry, in fact, that he left his gloves in the pocket of his other coat.

It wasn't an issue, really. Crowley always did quite well keeping his hands warm for him.

**

“There’s a theatre troupe in town, I’m sure you’ve heard,” Crowley said, looking at Asa over the lip of his cup.

“Oh, yes,” Asa replied, taking a slow sip of his own cocoa. “Performing—oh, Romeo and Juliet, I think?”

“Mhm,” Crowley agreed. “I’ve heard it—well. I’ve heard good things.”

“Shame, then,” Asa said nonchalantly, “that I’ve no one to go with. It simply doesn’t  _ do _ to go to the theatre by one’s self.”

The words themselves were light. Casual. Nothing more than a passing remark.

Asa smiled to himself as Crowley rolled his eyes affectionately, his ears tinging pink. “It, uh, just so happens that I’ve somehow come to acquire a spare ticket,” he said. “Tonight, seven o’clock. We can—we can get dinner before hand, if you’d like.”

“Oh, that sounds  _ lovely _ ,” Asa enthused, clapping his hands together lightly. “You  _ do  _ know how much I love Shakespeare—my dear, I can hardly wait.”

Crowley grinned, and their fingers brushed as Asa passed him the sugar.

**

“Angel,” Crowley gasped as Asa pulled him closer, the two of them stumbling backward until the back of Asa’s knees hit the sofa.

They were in the front room of the Crowley estate, Asa’s hands tangled in Crowley’s hair.

Crowley’s aunt was out for… some reason. Asa wasn’t thinking about it, because sure that Beatrix was probably doing something nefarious and he didn’t want that knowledge plaguing his conscious.

It was thrilling, kissing in Crowley’s house, in the parlour, where anyone could see. It was dangerous. It was risky. Asa could feel his blood pressure rising.

It was a strange sort of lovely, the way his heart pounded and his adrenaline rushed.

“Yes, my dear?” Asa finally replied.

“Nothing, I just—”

Crowley gasped as Asa sucked a bruise into his neck.

They never went past kissing, but Asa did love to leave marks on Crowley. He was loathe to admit it, but Asa had a possessive streak a mile wide.

“You just  _ what _ ?” Asa murmured quietly, his lips brushing against the space where Crowley's jaw met his throat.

Crowley gripped Asa's arms, his fingers digging into Asa's flesh hard enough to bruise, even through the thick layers of fabric. “Love you,” he whispered, his head falling forward onto Asa's shoulder.

Asa kissed his crown, his own arms wrapping around Crowley's waist.

“And I love you, my dearest,” he said.

They stood there for a moment, wrapped up in each other, and in that moment, Asa felt  _ known _ , known in a way that was much more dangerous than anything they'd been doing previous.

The only thing holding him together was Crowley's embrace, and if the other man pulled away, surely Asa would fall to pieces, shattered into a million shards of glass.

“Sweet, there is nothing left to say,” Asa muttered, the words barely louder than their mingled breaths and racing hearts, “But this: that love is never lost; keen winter stabs the breasts of May, whose crimson roses burst his frost; ships tempest-tossed will find a harbour in some bay—and so may we.”

The house was quiet.

**

_ The only salvation I seek, my dearest love, is that which I find in the palms of your hands, the parting of your lips, the light of your eyes. _

_ You’ll find no salvation here, angel, only sin. But how sweet is the sin that I taste on your tongue, and how foolish I am to want nothing more than to dance in the flames, if only I could hold you a little longer. _

**

In the evenings, when Asa's bedroom was lit only by candlelight and the small fire that crackled in the hearth, after Asa had eaten supper and written his letter for the day, once the moon hung aloft in the sky, silver and pale and surrounded by stars that were forever collapsing in on themselves,  _ then _ Asa would stand beside the glass doors to his balcony, would pick up his violin and his bow, and begin to play.

He had felt the urge to play settle in his chest his since he first arrived in Eden, the itch in his fingers to pick up his bow and rest the instrument beneath his chin, the pull of his heart towards the music, but until then, he'd ignored it.

What did he have to play, locked up in those hollow stone halls?

But now,  _ now _ , as his heart was full to bursting, his soul alight with joy, he found it came easy.

The notes fell deftly under his fingertips, each one perfectly in tune. Each pass of the bow was graceful and sweet, and Asa could not help but smile as he carefully played a tune he remembered from a dark December night, when he'd kissed his love amidst the fire light and the snow.

Sometimes, he would find Miss Tracy standing in his doorway, a knowing smile on her face.

"I'm so happy you've started playing again, dear," she said one evening as she lay a bundle of freshly cleaned shirt-collars in Asa's dresser drawer. "This house has been so quiet for so long… it's nice to hear some joy within these walls."

Asa didn't reply, didn't dare stop playing for a second, but he did smile back.

_ If music be the food of love, play on _ .

**

“Are you ever afraid?” Asa asked one afternoon. They were sitting at Oliver’s again, their ankles tangled together beneath the table, hidden by the tablecloth.

“Afraid of what, angel?”

Asa stared at him for a moment, eyebrows raised just enough to indicate just how utterly stupid he found that response to be.

Crowley sighed. “Of course I’m afraid,” he confessed. “How—we—I’d be an idiot if I wasn’t.”

Asa pursed his lips.

“I’m afraid,” Crowley repeated quietly, “but I’ve… I’ve decided not to care much about it. It I cared about every fear that ever crossed my mind, I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning.”

Asa longed to take Crowley’s hand in his own, to provide some real, physical comfort to the man who was obviously struggling to form the words.

“Darling—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley insisted. “It’s—I’m fine. Truly.”

“If you say so—”

“I  _ do _ .”

“Alright, then,” Asa said, taking a long sip of his tea.

“What about you, angel?” Crowley asked. “Are you—”

“You’ve already said that I’d be daft if I wasn’t,” Asa interrupted.

“‘Suppose I have,” Crowley muttered. “We’ve done alright so far, though. Yeah?”

“Yes,” Asa agreed. “I do think we have.”

They’d done  _ alright _ . It wasn’t—it wasn’t even in the  _ realm _ of good enough, not for Asa, and, if he asked, he was sure it wasn’t good enough for Crowley, either.

Nothing would be good enough. Not really. Nothing they could actually  _ have _ .

But this, these sly, knowing smiles sent across tables, this knocking of knees and brushing of fingertips as they passed each other the sugar bowl, these stolen kisses behind coffee houses and inside of carriages and in empty parlours and—recently—to sign at the bottom of their letters…

It was  _ alright _ .

It would do.

They had each other, they had  _ this _ , and it would do.

**

_ How exhilarating it is, angel, to know _

_ That the space between us is finite _

_ And that someday _

_ Nearer and nearer still _

_ I will have you in my arms _

_ Again _

**

They played together, the two of them. They stayed in Crowley’s parlour while his aunt was out, Crowley sitting upon the piano bench while Asa stood behind him, violin in hand.

And together, together,  _ together _ they would play, their melodies twisting around each other like a snake coiled in on itself, layered and warm and whole.

Asa would look over, would see Crowley from the corner of his eye, would watch as the cold winter sun glinted in those gorgeous amber eyes.

Crowley never wore his glasses when he played, and Asa never felt closer to heaven than he did when stared into Crowley’s eyes.

How could this be wrong? How could something so gentle, so sweet, be a sin? Who could witness such a scene and see anything so evil as to warrant damnation?

This was  _ love _ .

Asa let his eyes slip closed as his fingers danced across the catgut strings.

And if this was love, was there not God in it? Wasn’t it written, ‘ _ God is Love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him,’ _ ? And, there beside it,  _ ‘Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins, _ ’?

Surely no God Asa believed in would punish him for something so pure, so blessed, so holy and  _ good _ as this.

**

“Would you  _ slow down _ ,” Asa yelled, clinging to Crowley’s waist. “Honestly, you’re going to get us both ki— _ Crowley _ !”

“Relax, angel!” Crowley replied, twisting around to look Asa in the eye and wink. “Just enjoy it! The wind in your hair, the—”

“Watch the—would you  _ pay attention _ ?!”

“Bentley’s a marvel, we’ll be  _ fine _ —”

“I  _ despise _ you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Asa huffed and buried his face in Crowley’s neck as the other man laughed.

Honestly, he had no idea how he let himself get talked into these sorts of situations.  _ Horseback riding in February _ . Really.

He could admit, however, that there were some…  _ perks _ .

For one, this close up he could smell Crowley’s soap, his spicy cinnamon cologne, the tobacco from the cigars he still refused to give up. He could feel the heat of him, his pulse thumping against Asa’s cheek, the way his body rose and fell with every breath, the vibrations of his laugh in his throat. Asa’s hands had gotten cold, numb from the winter chill and the bite of the wind, and so he’d tucked them into the gaps between Crowley’s coat buttons, resting ever so lightly against Crowley’s stomach.

The sky was grey, but the sky was almost always grey around Eden, and if Asa dared to look up from where he was tucked into Crowley’s collar, he could see where the sunlight shone in the spaces between the clouds.

“Hold on, there’s a tree fallen up ahead, we’re gonna jump it,” Crowley called back.

“Can’t we just go  _ around it _ ?”

“Nah!”

Asa squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the momentary weightlessness followed by the jolt of their return to earth.

“You’re a  _ demon _ ,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“I said you’re a demon, you ridiculous fiend!”

Asa could  _ hear _ Crowley’s grin. “You always say the sweetest things, angel.”

Asa smiled against Crowley’s neck.

**

Gabriel was waiting at the front door when Asa arrived back at Eden.

“Asa,” he said evenly. There was a scowl on his face and something white in his hand. “You’ve been out for a while.”

“Oh, yes, well,” Asa said, clutching his hands behind his back, “Miss Device and I were discussing when exactly I should deliver my books.”

The lie came easily at that point. Well rehearsed to the point of perfection.

“Is that so?” Gabriel asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Asa said slowly. He could feel his palms getting damp.

“You see, I actually spoke to Miss Device earlier today,” Gabriel said, taking a step forward so that he was standing on the top of the front steps. Asa bit his lip. “And she didn’t seem to know a thing about your generous donation.”

“She must have—she must have forgotten—” Asa insisted quickly, backing away from his brother.

“Oh, I don’t think she did,” Gabriel replied, his voice cold. “And that’s not all, little brother. Something else happened the other day, something just as odd. You were out when the post came—you’re out a lot these days, aren’t you?—and  _ imagine my surprise _ when there was a letter there, addressed to you, without any sort of return address.”

“Oh?” Asa said, his voice cracking over the word. “That—that is rather curious—”

“Be.  _ Quiet _ . Asa,” Gabriel growled. He stalked forward, down the steps and across the path, until he was only a few feet from Asa. “This letter,” he continued, “was really a  _ very  _ interesting read.  _ You spin words into the loveliest brocade, angel, that serves only to tie my heart closer to you _ —it’s really something. Your friend is quite the poet.”

“Ah,” Asa stammered. “Yes, you see, I—we—we’re writing. Together. Poetry. You—do you—”

His words were cut off by the back of Gabriel’s hand.

“You really ought to learn when to shut your stupid mouth,” he snarled. “I followed you today, you know that? It wasn’t hard. You didn't ever even notice. Although, I don’t know how you  _ would _ , what with you being so  _ preoccupied _ with  _ Anthony fucking Crowley _ .”

“Gabriel,  _ please _ —” Asa tried to explain.

“I  _ thought _ ,” Gabriel continued, looming over Asa with a look like murder in his eyes, “we’d  _ fixed this _ . I thought we’d—but  _ no _ . No, I don't know why I ever even bothered. You don’t  _ help _ , you don’t want—”

Gabriel didn’t seem able to go on, too furious for words. Instead, he grabbed Asa by the arm and dragged him forward, almost causing the younger man to topple over into the mud.

“Gabriel, please, you  _ must _ understand—” Asa pleaded.

“What is there  _ to _ understand, brother? What have I misunderstood? Please, enlighten me. Tell me that I’m wrong. Tell me that what I saw  _ wasn’t _ you and that Crowley boy, engaging in—in— _ gross bodily functions _ .”

It hurt.

Asa looked up and saw such  _ disgust  _ in his brother's eyes, such disdain, and right there along with it, something like—

Like sadness? Sorrow? Fear?

Hope?

Something in Gabriel was hoping that Asa  _ would _ have a good explanation for all this, that somehow Asa could defend himself, prove that he hadn’t done what Gabriel was accusing him of.

_ That _ hurt most of all.

Gabriel was caustic and elitist and egotistical and intolerant and overbearing and demanding and condescending and he was all the family Asa had ever known.

It had always been the two of them. They were what was left after the death of their parents. They’d always had Miss Tracy, of course, and the other people in town, but as for those who truly  _ knew _ Eden…

There had only ever been two.

Gabriel had, at one point, been kind. He’d been considerate, he’d been loving, he’d been supportive. He’d offered Asa a shoulder to lean on, to cry on, a hand to hold, someone to  _ trust _ . He’d taught Asa to read, to write, to ride a horse and shoot a gun, to navigate the mess of the world they had inherited.

But things had changed, Asa most of all.

And love that could not adapt to change was no love at all.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to lose it.

“I can’t,” Asa murmured. “I—Crowley and I—we—”

Gabriel let go all at once, ripping his hands away from Asa as if he had a disease Gabriel could catch. Asa stumbled and fell to the ground, his knees sinking into the muck.

“You’re  _ despicable _ ,” Gabriel hissed, and Asa could hear conviction and the pain in his voice, could hear as Gabriel walked past him, could see his brother’s perfectly polished boots carefully avoid the mud as he made his way up the steps to the house.

He left Asa there, cold and filthy and alone.

**

He didn’t eat that night, or the next morning. He missed lunch, tea, and dinner again, a day passing without food, and then another.

He  _ ached _ .

He received no letters, no word from Crowley at all, but he supposed it made sense, seeing as Gabriel was surely interfering with any correspondence between them.

Oh, Asa  _ prayed _ that was all he was doing.

It was one thing for him to sit prisoner at his brother’s hand, it was quite another to imagine that Crowley, so brave and bright and  _ alive _ , might be…

Asa felt sick simply thinking about it.

This, he realised, was why men went mad. It was the knowledge that somewhere, out there, there was the chance for them to live a life full of love and joy, and that it was a chance they’d never get.

He sat and stared out the window as the days passed.

Was it days, or was it minutes? Or millennia? Or seconds? Or centuries?

Asa didn't know.

All he knew was that the world outside his window was cold and barren and grey.

That he was alone.

That even this would not last.

**

Gabriel didn't speak with him. Asa wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected, only that he'd expected  _ something _ , something more than silence.

Maybe a lecture? Maybe a threat? Maybe a sermon? Maybe a strongly worded note?

Anything. Anything more than this, than a wooden door locked from the outside and a pointed refusal to acknowledge that Asa even existed.

Often, Asa considered climbing down his balcony, and packing a trunk and  _ leaving _ , of getting as far away as he could manage, but he never did.

What would he  _ do _ ? He had no money of his own, he knew no trade but writing or editing or organising literature. He could, perhaps, sell a few of his more valuable possessions—his violin, perhaps, and his blue velvet coat—but there was no way he could escape with everything he would need.

So he stayed put.

**

The fire in Asa's room was never lit.

It wasn't that he'd been told not to light it, or that he didn't have the means to.

No, he simply couldn't find it within himself to do it.

He didn't see the point.

**

Asa was staring at his copy of  _ 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea _ (not reading—he couldn’t focus enough to read, his mind fuzzy and full of cotton wool) when he heard the first  _ thump _ against his balcony door.

He didn’t react, at first. Surely it was a wayward branch, or a bird, or an acorn, or a confused squirrel, or simply the wind.

_ Thump. Thump thump thump thump thump _ —

Asa leapt to his feet, the book falling off his lap onto the floor.

Ever since Gabriel had thrown him into the mud, ever since his brother had locked him in his room, made him a prisoner in his own home, looked at his with such scorn and disgust, Asa hadn’t allowed himself to feel angry. He was upset, of course—absolutely devastated may have been more accurate, actually—but not  _ angry. _ Any anger he may have felt, he’d tamped down, locked away, saved for—

Something. Some time, in the future, when he imagined he’d be free, able to rant and rage about the  _ indignity _ , the  _ disrespect _ , the  _ immorality _ of everything he’d endured.

Or, maybe, he was just waiting for an easy target for his wrath.

“For all the Almighty’s love, would you  _ please _ stop with inane racket? I’ve never witnessed anything more infuriating in all my years, never seen something so childish and—” Asa’s words caught in his throat, and when he continued, his voice was soft and nigh on broken. “Is that you, Crowley?”

It was, surely it was.

Sitting there on a black horse, his long, red hair tied back and seeming to glow in the golden light of the evening, was Crowley, with a sack of what Asa assumed to be pebbles on his lap.

The rocks he’d already thrown littered Asa’s balcony.

“What are you—Crowley, you have to leave! If Gabriel sees you—”

“But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?” Crowley quoted, his voice soft but earnest, seemingly unmoved by Asa’s pleas. “I am too bold, 'tis not to me he speaks: Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return.”

“ _ Crowley _ ,” Asa murmured. “Oh, my love—”

“Run away with me,” Crowley interrupted. “Angel, please, I’ve—I’ve taken all I can from my family’s account. We could go to London, just the two of us, start over  _ together _ —”

“Together?” Asa repeated quietly.

“Yes! Yes, angel,  _ please _ . You, and me, and—and a bookshop on a corner in Soho. We can do it, it can—it can be ours, us, together, if you just— _ come away with me _ , Asa Fell.”

For a moment, Asa stared, the absurdity of the situation cresting over him like a wave.

There he was, leaning over his balcony rail as the wind swept through his hair, as his dearest, sweetest,  _ forbidden love _ , who had tossed rocks at his window to get his attention, quoted Shakespeare and begged Asa to  _ run away with him _ .

Well, then.

If his life wanted to make itself into a fairytale, Asa was tired of fighting it.

“You’ll have to give me a moment to pack, you understand,” he called down. “I—I’m in my  _ dressing gown _ , Crowley. And I—surely there’s something of value in this room, something we can take to sell—”

“So you’ll do it, then?” Crowley asked, eyes wide, looking as shocked as Asa had ever seen him, and  _ oh _ if that didn’t hurt.

He’d expected Asa to say  _ no _ . He’d—rightfully, Asa could admit—expected Asa to keep himself locked away, under his family’s thumb, confined to a prison that barely had any walls.

“Of course, my darling boy,” Asa said, and the smile on Crowley’s face lit up the evening.

_ Oh my dear,  _ he thought as he rushed around, tossing what items he could think of into his old, worn leather case,  _ I couldn’t utter my love when it counted, but I’ll sing like a bird about it now. _

**

They were gone before the sun had fully set.

**

They arrived in London just as the sun began to peak over the horizon, its light blanketing the city like gold foil.

It was loud, even in the earliest hours of the morning, and dirty, the streets lined with mud and muck and other things that smelled strongly of horse dung, and hectic, and crowded, and altogether messy and chaotic.

Asa relaxed immediately.

“You, ah, wouldn’t happen to know of any inns nearby?” Crowley muttered, leaning back just a bit, as if Asa wasn’t plastered to his back in a way that allowed him to not only  _ hear _ Crowley’s words but also  _ feel _ them as they rumbled through the other man’s chest.

Asa looked around. “I mean, we’re not particularly close to where I was staying,” he replied. “But there’s—well, there’s a place in the West End that I visited a few times, it’s—well.”

“Yes, angel?” Crowley asked, and Asa sighed and rolled his eyes.

“It’s next to a—a rather  _ discreet  _ gentlemen’s club that I frequented occasionally, and sometimes it would be quite late, and—you know. The streets can be dangerous at night! So I—”

Crowley laughed, just one more sound added to the cacophony swelling around them. “You don't have to explain yourself to me, angel,” he said. And then, his tone a touch more serious. “Not ever.”

Asa bit his lip, clenched his fists, did all he could to restrain himself from kissing Crowley right there in the street.

He doubted that sort of action would be wise, even in London.

Instead, he contented himself with holding onto Crowley's waist as Crowley directed Bentley through the streets, heading in the opposite direction of the rising sun.

**

The inn was right where Asa had last left it, sitting on a street in Soho, adjacent to a club that just barely this side of shabby.

They booked a room with two beds, and privately agreed they would only make use of one.

The need to stay close to each other, to always be within arms reach, to be able to touch, to feel, to  _ know  _ that the other was there, alive and real, was too great to fight.

And so they lay across from each other in that single, small bed, tangled in one another's arms.

Warm and content and  _ together _ .

**

Life somehow settled.

(One finds that, given the chance, that is what life is wont to do.)

The two of them found work in town, Asa again in editing, Crowley in investment banking, and soon, with the help of the funds that Crowley had smuggled out of his family’s bank account, they were able to purchase a tiny flat on the second story of a building on a street corner in Soho.

It was small, and cramped, and the ceilings were a bit too low to be completely comfortable, and at night they were able to hear the noise and catch the scents of the bar that occupied the floor below them, but neither of them necessarily minded because at the end of the day, when they each returned home, it was to each other.

When they woke up in the mornings, it was in each other’s arms.

When they are supper at night (never as good as any of Miss Tracy's cooking, but alright just the same) it was across from one another at the same table.

The letters never stopped.

They were left around the flat, notes in pressed brown paper, sealed shut with candle wax.

_ My love for you cannot be counted, not with every grain of sand, not with every star in the sky, not with every blade of grass, not with infinity after infinity. Nothing that exists could properly contain the vastness of my love for you, my angel. _

_ Please remember to pick up eggs. _

Asa cherished every one of them, kept them in the top drawer of his bedside table, would take them out and read them over and over again in the lamp light, until they were worn and faded and frayed at the edges.

**

Time passed, months into years. The bar below them closed in 1892, when Asa and Crowley were each 34, old enough and wise enough to recognise a poor financial decision when they saw one, but not, apparently, old enough to let that stop them.

They bought an old, rickety piano and an even older, scuffed violin, and the both of them settled into the back corner of the shop. There was a stand beside the instruments, piled high with music, with  _ Nocturnes _ and  _ Preludes _ and  _ Sonatas _ and  _ Concertos _ , and at night, when the sun had set and the world was made of candlelight, they would pull their music out and play.

There was a piece, a piece that Crowley had brought home one evening, tucked under his arm with a bottle of wine and a lump of gouda wrapped in brown paper.

“What’s this, then?” Asa asked, looking over the carefully printed notes. “ _ Clair de Lune _ ?”

“Heard it played the other day,” Crowley said, setting the rest of groceries down before pulling a chair up in front of the piano. “It’s—you’ll love it. Trust me.”

Asa smiled.

Oh, his heart was too old to still be so full, to still feel a breath from bursting every time the light caught in Crowley’s eyes.

He  _ did _ love it.

He loved any song that was for them.

**

If one were to visit every street corner in London Soho on the twenty-fourth of May in 1906, one would, eventually, stumble upon a bookshop.

The building itself was old, with a red-painted wooden door bracketed by two tall, white columns. The wide glass windows looked in on rows upon rows upon  _ rows _ of bookshelves, each shelf stuffed to the gills with every kind of book imaginable. Dickens sat next to Darwin, which was in turn next to Shelley (both of them, mind) and Shakespeare and Socrates. Thoreau and Twain and Tolstoy, Austen and Allcot and Aristotle, Bronte (all three) and Byron, Wilde and Sappho and Kafka and Virgil and London and Plato, all of them lined up next to each other.

If there  _ was no frigate like a book _ , A.Z. Fell and Co. was a veritable  _ shipyard _ .

It was warm and weaving and comforting and quiet, unless, of course, one of the proprietors had gone and put on the gramophone, and then the shop was filled with sweet music, songs fit for kings and, indeed, queens.

But on that particular evening, one would not find the owners of the store there. No, to find them on that specific evening, one would need to travel across town to Mayfair, where a rather extravagant new restaurant had just opened its doors. 

And there, sitting at a lovely little table in the middle of the Ritz, one would find Mr. Fell himself, his blonde hair now edging ever closer to white.

His dinner guest, a man whose hair seemed to be stubbornly remaining bright red for all it was thinning at the top, Mr. Fell's business partner and flatmate, Mr. Crowley, glanced over at him from across the table, his lips curving in a way that could only be described as  _ hopelessly fond _ .

Crowley carefully raised his glass, and with that same sweet smile said, "To the world."

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Asa heard everything he couldn't say, and raised his own glass in agreement. "To the  _ world _ ," he replied, doing nothing to stifle the love he knew was evident in his eyes.

They drank.

And if one listened closely—really,  _ truly  _ closely they could hear it.

A nightingale singing in Berkeley Square.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank you so, so much for reading. Please comment, and please make sure to check out the pages of the artists and beta involved! Have a lovely day!


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